Face Down in the Desert
by Noxbait
Summary: S7, post-Born Again Identity. He'd been expecting Sam to crash for about a month. What he hadn't been expecting was Sam not crashing right away. What he should have been prepared for, but found himself completely surprised by, was the withdrawal and emotional fallout. The boys slowly pick up the pieces, and get some unexpected help along the way from friends: Tommy and Arla Pender.
1. Chapter One: When the sky begins to fall

**Hello! So. I am doing something I swore I wouldn't do again ha. I'm posting a story that I'm still working on and isn't complete. I SWORE I wouldn't do this again after "The Christmas Spirit" took me nearly a year to finish heehee. But thing is...I kind of need to post. Because if I'm just writing for myself, I'm excruciatingly lazy and I'd probably never get this finished. So I'm taking a chance here and throwing it out while I'm still working on it hopefully to put some pressure on myself to keep posting. It's also more fun sharing than just reading it to myself. :) So fair warning...it's a WIP but I am committed to finishing it (and in much shorter a time frame than a year!)**

 **Also! This story will bring back the Penders from "The Christmas Spirit." For those who were so wonderful to stick with that monstrously long story, hopefully you'll enjoy seeing Arla and Tommy back again. And for those who haven't read TCS, don't worry, just know that they are a nice older couple who took care of the boys when they needed some help back in early Season 1.**

 **Set immediately following Born Again Identity, S7, because so much more needed to happen. Sigh. Season 7 broke the boys. I felt the need to put them back together again (after maybe breaking them just a tiny bit more...).**

 **Title and chapter titles from "Brother" by NEEDTOBREATHE.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1: When the Sky Begins to Fall**_

Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

Two are better than one,  
because they have a good return for their labor:  
If either of them falls down,  
one can help the other up.  
But pity anyone who falls  
and has no one to help them up.

 _He'd been dreading it, but expecting the nightmares, the continued fleeting moments of panic when the lines between reality and hallucinations would still blur.  
_ _He'd been expecting Sam to crash for about a month.  
_ _What he hadn't been expecting was Sam_ not _crashing right away. And what he_ should _have been prepared for, but found himself completely surprised by, was the withdrawal._

Dean had been riding such an unbelievable high at the miraculous ease of their escape that it made the inevitable crash back to reality that much more staggering.

It truly had been nothing short of a miracle that they'd made it out of the hospital, but Dean thought it was even more miraculous, if that were possible, that Sam had made it out without needing much more than an occasional word of guidance or a steadying hand to keep him tilted in the right direction. Reaching the crappy vehicle of the week, Dean felt the giddy urge to actually do a victory dance. Instead, Sam started talking and they had a brief, but _far too long_ , conversation about Cas. The last thing he wanted to do was stand around talking; even if it was nice to have a sane conversation with his brother for the first time in what seemed like forever. He just wanted to get as far away as humanly possible as fast as humanly possible.

Once in the car, he had one split second of believing that the worst was behind them. It was a good split second, followed immediately by sheer, overwhelming panic.

Dean slipped the key into the ignition, a relieved grin beginning to form on his face, despite the underlying, raging worry, as he turned to look at Sam. Sam, who had been shockingly alert and functional, now lay melted bonelessly against the seat, eyes closed. Dean's panic went from 0 to 100 in the next split second and his hands reached out, clumsily searching for a pulse, breath, a response.

 _Anything_.

"Sam!" Dean shouted way too loudly in the confined space. Sam didn't respond and even though he felt a pulse, one that was tripping a bit unsteadily and way too fast, Dean didn't like it at all. He shifted in his seat and grabbed at Sam's jacket with his left hand to give him a shake while he used his right hand to tilt Sam's face toward him.

It felt like eternities passed, but it was less than a second before Sam dragged a hand up and closed shaking fingers around Dean's left wrist.

"Sam." Dean's panic must have come through loud and clear this time. _Answer me now!_

Sam rolled his head a bit closer to Dean, trapping his hand between his cheek and the seat back. Getting his eyes open looked like the hardest task he'd ever been asked to complete, but Dean started breathing again when he was able to see Sam looking back at him; tired, no scratch that, _exhausted_ eyes containing a hint of amusement. Dean wasn't amused by anything right now, though.

Undisguised tension leaking out in his voice and the way he hadn't moved away yet, Dean tried for casual nonetheless and said, "Hey."

"' _Mtired_." Sam's voice was wrecked and his words slid together as one.

Dean felt the breath and stress rush out of him in a heavy sigh. He lowered his head and again tried to remember how to breathe, then gently pulled his hand out from where it was squished between Sam's face and the seat. He patted his brother's chest, dislodging Sam's weak grasp on his arm and said, "I know."

"Y'alright?"

With a snort, Dean shook his head, started the car and said, "I'm nowhere near alright."

"Happened?" Sam asked, his eyes barely open, but still focused on Dean.

He sounded completely floored and Dean couldn't help but wonder what exactly his brother even remembered from the hospital...or the last few months. Now was not the time to discuss it, though. Dean turned out onto the main road and pressed down on the gas. He asked, "Sammy?"

"Hm?"

"Go to sleep."

"K."

But he didn't go to sleep. Not unless he was sleeping with his eyes open. For the next hour and a half, every time Dean glanced over at him, which was about every thirty seconds, Sam was lying exactly where he had been and blinking slowly as he stared back.

"Sam?" Dean finally spoke up.

Sam cleared his throat and asked, "What?"

"Thought you were gonna sleep."

"Where're we goin?"

"As far as we can go. Then a motel. Not long, ok? I promise there's a bed in your near future, man." Dean couldn't even force an encouraging smile at this point. Tension throbbed through his entire body, driving spikes of pain behind his eyes. The fact that Sam was still awake was stressing him out in a way he couldn't even explain. He wanted to drive forever, get as far away as possible, but yet another glance at his brother told him he needed to adjust his plans. He said, "Just hang on."

"Dean?"

"What?" Dean snapped. He wanted Sam to shut up. To go to sleep. To stop looking like he was dead.

He didn't get any of the three. Sam squinted at him a little and asked, "Where are we?"

"I don't know. Somewhere in Indiana." Dean answered, running a hand over his face and turning the car south. He wasn't going near Chicago so he opted for the straightest shot of road going anywhere but here.

For the next ten minutes or so, the car fell silent. Dean almost relished it because he needed the quiet. Needed to think. Needed to come to terms with everything that had just happened. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Cas, though. And his stomach twisted uncomfortably. Slamming a lid on thinking about Cas, Dean looked back at Sam and knew he needed to find a place to stay. Now. For both their sakes.

"How you holdin up?" Dean asked, his voice scratchy and quiet.

From his own assessment of his brother, Sam wasn't holdin' up. Not at all. He was looking less lively by the second, which wasn't saying much. He'd looked like a corpse since he'd sat down in the car, but his eyes remained stubbornly open. Dean couldn't help but wonder if he was afraid to close them.

Sam stared at him for a long second, then whispered, "We got any water?"

Dean cursed, the car swerving a bit as he dug around in the pile of gear he had littering the back seat. What had he been thinking? He'd got them to the car and on the road out of town but hadn't done anything to make sure Sam was really ok. He took in the cracked, dry lips, the way Sam swallowed painfully as he caught sight of the bottle of water and knew his brother was dehydrated; probably seriously so.

"Here, Sam. Sorry." Dean handed him the water bottle, then paused when Sam didn't automatically reach out to grab it. "Sam?"

Sam's arms remained limp on the seat, but he slid his tongue across his lips and asked in a halting voice so pained that Dean winced, "Can you take the cap off?"

Dean's anxiety thudded against his chest at his brother's request, but he took the cap off and this time, when he offered the bottle, Sam dragged a hand off the seat and took the bottle shakily. Probably a quarter of it wound up spilling down Sam's shirt or onto the seat, but Dean didn't even care. For one thing, it wasn't the Impala. For another thing, it was water. Something Sam seemed to be in much need of. When he'd finished about half, he held it back out to Dean who took it wordlessly and twisted the cap back on.

"Better?"

Sam smiled, licking his lips again and shifting ever so slightly. He said, "Thanks."

Dean nodded, satisfied that he'd done at least one thing right. A few minutes passed in silence before Sam spoke up again.

"And thanks for coming back to get me." Sam said, his voice sounding just a pinch less torn up this time.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Dean tried for a smirk, but his words and attempt at humor fell flat when he caught the guilty flash of uncertainty in Sam's eyes.

He _hadn't_ been sure.

And that made Dean hate himself a thousand times over for the way he'd walked out of the hospital without _really_ making sure Sam knew he intended to do whatever it took to get him out. That he wasn't abandoning him. Thinking back, he still felt the sharp pain in his chest that had spiked as he'd walked out on his brother. He hadn't been thinking clearly that day; probably hadn't been thinking clearly for a _long_ time in fact. All he'd been able to focus on that day had been the fact that Sam had apparently given up fighting, or more accurately, was too completely wiped out to keep fighting. He'd known looking at him that Sam wasn't going to be able to hang on much longer, so he'd practically run for the door, desperate beyond words to find a solution.

In reflection, he probably should have spent a little more time trying to get that through his brother's stubborn, sleep-deprived head before he'd run out on him.

Casting him a quick glance, Dean shook his head and asked, "What in our entire history makes you think I wouldn't come back for you?"

The brief uncertainty vanished as if Dean had imagined it and Sam smiled as he whispered, "Nothing at all."

"Exactly." Dean said firmly, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel loosening ever so slightly as he relaxed back into the seat.

Minutes ticked by in comfortable silence and his spinning, worrying, tumbling thoughts narrowed down to _we're gonna be alright. Find a place to hole up and get a bit of rest…_

"Dean?"

Sam's whisper broke into his musing and Dean mumbled a distracted "Hm?"

And then his distraction disappeared like the bubble of growing relief that he had just started to enjoy. Because his brother, who had been doing a good impression of a wet sock, suddenly jackknifed forward and all the water he'd recently managed to drink was coming back up. All over his jeans, boots, all over the floorboard.

"Crap! Sam…" Dean cursed loudly as he veered the car to a rough stop on the gravel shoulder of the road. Sam just kept throwing up water as his arms wrapped around his chest and his forehead smacked against the dashboard.

Car safely in park, Dean scooted over and put a hand against Sam's forehead to keep him from smacking his head again. Sam pressed against him, moaning and retching, arms tight around his chest. It reminded Dean abruptly that Sam's suffering wasn't solely linked to days of not sleeping. He'd been hit by a damned car on top. _Broken rib, concussion, bruised wrist…_ Dean shook his head and got a better grip on Sam's shoulder.

"Hey, hey, easy…" Dean tried for supportive and just sounded scared. All Sam had brought up was water which made Dean wonder exactly how long it had been since his brother had even eaten anything.

Sam coughed a couple times, then put a hand against the dashboard, barely lifting his head enough for him to meet Dean's gaze. He asked, "Is this real?"

Dean's heart dropped, but he immediately nodded and his voice was rock steady even if nothing else was as he said, "It's real. You're fine. Hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Ok. Come on, then," Dean forced himself to take charge of the situation. "Sit back. We're gonna find a place to stay."

Sam settled back against the seat, but kept his arms wrapped around his chest this time and he didn't look relaxed anymore. He looked like he was wound so tight a deep breath would shatter him. Sam stared blankly for a moment then said, "I can't remember what happened."

His voice and expression told Dean exactly how freaked out he was, but now was still not the time for this discussion. Not when they were on the side of a road leading who knew where with people potentially after them and Cas gone crazy and Dean's head ready to explode. So he said, as calming as he could, "I do. So trust me, ok? You need some sleep. A lot of sleep. A _week_ of sleep. That's all you need to worry about right now. Got it?"

Sam nodded, then flinched and put a hand to his head.

Dean got the car back on the road and said, "Good. I'm gonna find a motel so you can crash then I'll go grab some stuff cuz I'm betting you haven't eaten anything in…."

"No," Sam cut him off, "I'll come with you."

"What? To the grocery store? Dude, you're beat." Dean shook his head, "Only place you're going is to bed."

Despite his proclamation, Dean could see Sam was not letting it go. He was breathing faster and looking surprisingly agitated for someone who also looked ready to drop from exhaustion. But it was the almost inaudible, "Please," that brought Dean up short. He couldn't fight him. Not when he was so sick and tired and confused and overwhelmed.

"Ok, ok. We'll stop at a gas station on the way to the motel. I'll make a quick grab and then we'll go." Dean said, compromising as best he could. "Satisfied?"

Sam nodded, settling back and, _finally,_ closing his eyes.

And because he just couldn't leave well enough alone, Dean had to ask, "You ok?"

"No."

Dean couldn't blame him.

* * *

It was by far the fastest run through a gas station mini-mart Dean had ever made in his life. And he'd made some pretty damn quick mini-mart dashes in his time. Armful of Gatorade. Extra-Strength Tylenol. Plain crackers because he had a feeling Sam wasn't going to be ready for beef jerky or a hot dog yet. He grabbed the jerky for himself though, along with a case of beer and a bottle of Jack. Purely medicinal. He wouldn't be drinking for recreation tonight but he had a strong feeling he was going to need some medicine of his own once he got Sam situated comfortably and sound asleep.

Dodging past a trucker searching for a candy bar, Dean grabbed a few other odds and ends and glanced out the window, his racing heart slowing just a bit once he caught sight of Sam, still sitting in the car. Eyes closed, head back against the seat, he looked like he could be sleeping, but even from inside the store, Dean could see the lines of tension on his face and in his slumped posture. He was very much awake and not at all relaxed despite appearances. Practically throwing the cash at the clerk, Dean dashed back outside.

Opening the car door had Sam shifting toward him, but not panicking. He just blinked and stared as Dean dropped the bags onto the seat between them. Dean said, "You want to try some Gatorade now?"

Sam shook his head excruciatingly slowly and whispered, "Wait till we're not driving anymore."

Dean grimaced in sympathy, starting the car up. He backed out of the parking space and asked, "Still sick to your stomach?"

"Yeah."

"Ok. Well, hang on there. Motel up next. Clerk said there's a decent one a couple miles down the road. Be there in ten."

Sam didn't comment and Dean hit the gas. He pulled into the motel parking lot just under nine minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, he'd paid for a room and parked the car in front and turned the engine off. Sam's eyes were closed again when Dean turned to him and said, "We're here."

"Give me a minute."

"Ok." Dean nodded. He hesitated for a few seconds, then grabbed the bags of supplies and said, "I'll be right back."

A half-hearted lift of his brother's hand was his permission to go unlock the door of the room, take a quick perusal of the amenities, and dump the bags on the table. He was back outside in under a minute. Rounding the car, he saw that Sam had managed to get the door open, but was still sitting, unmoving, in the seat. _Ok, so maybe he needs_ two _minutes_ , Dean decided, continuing around the car to the trunk. He pulled out Sam's gear, then reached back in for his. And yanked on it a few dozen times when it refused to budge. His blood pressure spiked and he cursed, leaning in and finally untangling the loop on his bag from the obstruction beneath it.

Frustration and anger not abated, he slammed the trunk and stomped into the room again, dumping the gear on one of the beds. Taking a deep breath, he ran a hand over his face. He wanted to sit down. Wanted a drink. Wanted to forget the past month or two.

 _What's new?_

Turning away from the comfy looking beds, Dean headed back outside. This time, when he rounded the passenger side of the car, he found Sam had made some progress. He had his feet on the ground by now, but was still sitting in the car, leaning heavily against the open door, head down. Dean paused a short distance away, not wanting to pressure or crowd his brother. In all honesty, he wasn't completely sure how Sam was doing. And even less sure what Sam needed from him.

"Sam?" He asked softly after a few seconds.

"Yeah." Sam looked up at him. Well, he lifted his head a bit anyway; as bleary as his eyes were, Dean wasn't sure he was really _seeing_ anything.

Dean shook his head, "How are you even awake, man?" He held out a hand, "Come on, Sleepy, past your bedtime."

That got him a brief but genuine smile and Dean even managed to return it. Sam nodded and Dean reached down to help him up; then did his best to ignore how much Sam was trembling, how stiff and weak he was. _He just needs sleep. And food. And more sleep_ , Dean told himself over and over as they slowly walked to the door.

"Almost there. Then you can sleep for a month, ok?" Dean encouraged as they stepped into the room. "How's that sound?"

Sam gave him a thumbs up, but whispered, "Shower first."

Dean wanted to protest that plan, but he couldn't blame Sam for wanting to get the stink of that hospital off him. Understood, but he wasn't sure Sam was going to stay upright that long. Cautiously he asked, "You sure you're up for it?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded, pulling away ever so slightly and fumbling with the strap of his backpack.

"I'll get it." Dean said, grabbing the bag from his brother. Sam nodded and took another step away, starting to work on peeling his jacket off. Dean made sure he wasn't going to topple over, then let him be and walked the bag to the bathroom. It was a nice bathroom for once, Dean thought in appreciation. Spacious and _clean_. Turning the shower on to get it warmed up, Dean called out, "There's good water pressure, Sammy!"

Turning around, he hurried back into the other room and nearly ran into his brother. Catching his arm when Sam wavered, Dean frowned and said, "You sure you don't want a nap first?"

Sam just shook his head, sidestepped Dean and, in a completely uncharacteristic move, let his jacket hit the floor right where he had been standing. Ten unsteady steps later, the bathroom door closed softly behind him. For a moment, Dean just stood there, hands on his waist, staring with narrowed eyes at the closed door, anticipating a thud, or a cry for help, or _something_. Instead, he heard some muted movement and the shower curtain being pulled back and forth. Satisfied for the moment that his brother hadn't fallen over, _yet_ , Dean took a deep breath.

He reached down for Sam's jacket, turned around and tripped over his shoes. Dean kicked them out of the way, tossed the jacket onto the bed and started toward the food. Before he got that far, though, his legs refused to hold him any longer. Going down fast, Dean caught the edge of the bed and flopped down on it heavily. A wave of dizziness passed over him and he felt ice cold, then burning hot and all he could do was let himself fall backwards until he was sprawled back on the bed, feet still on the floor.

* * *

 **The next two chapters are in proofing and revision stage so I'm hoping I'll be posting at least a chapter a week. That's my goal anyway! Thank you so much for reading!**


	2. Chapter Two: We Can't Find What We Need

**Hi everyone! Man, I was blown away by all the super nice reviews for chapter one! :) Thank you all! Hope you will enjoy this chapter and chapter three is already in progress! And be assured, both boys have a rough road ahead, ok? I am an equal opportunity whumper and I promise you, things get a lot worse before they get better. For _both_ of them! ...mwhahaha...**

 **Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 2: We Can't Find What We Need**_

Sam leaned back against the bathroom door and closed his eyes for a second. And then quickly decided that closing his eyes would be a one way ticket to the ground. If he hadn't been pressed back against the door for support, he would have been on the floor already. He locked his knees, hands still held against the door, and tried to focus on the room and the task before him. All he had to do was take a quick shower. Such a simple task, but it seemed oddly insurmountable at the moment.

He stared across the bathroom at the water Dean had thoughtfully turned on for him and lifted one hand to scrub at his eyes. A grey mist crowded the corners of his vision no matter how much he blinked. The way the grey gave way to total blackness that actually obliterated his vision from time to time was distracting at best and terrifying at worst.

But the darkness in his vision was nothing at all compared to the darkness in his mind.

Taking a halting step forward, Sam grabbed the edge of the counter and used it to hold himself up as he started trying to get undressed. Peeling off his clothes left him panting and dizzy and strongly considering the fact that maybe he should have heeded Dean's advice and taken a nap first. The temptation to just curl up on the floor was strong, but the lure of the hot water was stronger.

Getting in the shower, Sam felt some of the tension, the _terror_ , relaxing out of his muscles as he scrubbed himself clean. His mind was foggy at best, and he knew Dean had been shocked that he hadn't fallen asleep yet. He was a little surprised himself, but it was amazing how easy it was to stay awake when you were afraid to fall asleep.

Even if you couldn't quite remember why.

Memories, images, flickered in and out of focus, but he couldn't keep anything pinned down long enough to begin to remember what had happened.

Leaning his head against the wall and shivering despite the hot water, Sam kept his eyes focused on the pale blue tiles inches from his face. It left him cross-eyed and did absolutely nothing to help the pounding headache, but it still was better than closing his eyes.

At least while his eyes were open he could keep his thoughts straight. More or less. He was grateful that Dean hadn't been too chatty; which actually was something that probably should be worrying him, Sam vaguely decided. A second later, though, and that thought, and the concern it engendered, disappeared like a soap bubble and Sam couldn't even remember what he'd just been thinking about. Forcing himself to concentrate was like trying to keep his head above water; darkness creeping up on him on all sides.

He couldn't remember why he was so tired.

Putting both hands against the tile as his knees threatened to give out, he fought back the overwhelming lightheadedness. Standing up was exhausting. Thinking was exhausting. _Breathing_ was exhausting. Breathing also _hurt_. His breath hitched as his thoughts focused on his breathing and he chanced moving one hand from the tile to press against his side where most of the pain was centered. The pain in his chest radiated outward the more he focused on it and suddenly he realized how much _everything_ hurt. Every muscle in his body ached, his fingers hurt, his chest hurt, his entire face hurt.

Unable to stop a groan, he decided it was past time to get off his feet. Hand shaking, he turned the water off, realizing as he did so how cold the water had become. It stunned him, _scared_ him, to realize how much time had passed without his awareness if he'd been in the shower long enough for the hot water to turn to ice. Full body chills shook him and he almost slipped as he tried to see through the ever-encroaching darkness to reach for a towel.

Drying off was more of a work out that it should have been and he finally had to sit down on the edge of the tub for a few minutes before he could even consider getting dressed. When he was recovered a bit, he reached up to the counter where Dean had left his backpack. He tugged on it until it hit the floor with a thud that he knew would bring Dean running. One arm pressed to his aching ribs, Sam held tight to the towel with his other hand and stared warily at the door.

It didn't fly off its hinges. He frowned when minutes passed and he remained uninterrupted. Dean must have stepped out to grab a soda or get something from the car, Sam finally decided. Because Dean not being in the vicinity was the only reason he could think of for his over protective brother not to come storming in at the sound of that thump.

So he unzipped the backpack and focused on getting dressed. As with everything else, it took him far longer than it really should have. By now, he was shivering so badly his teeth were chattering as he hunted through his backpack for a warmer shirt. He found his toothbrush and toothpaste and tossed them up onto the counter, then pulled a long sleeved henley over his t-shirt. Deciding a pair of socks might not hurt either, Sam pulled them on, then dragged himself to his feet again, still not feeling any warmer despite his sweatpants and layers. He just wanted to crawl under a pile of blankets and ask Dean to turn the heat up.

Dizzy, and increasingly sick to his stomach, Sam leaned heavily on the counter and let his head drop until some of the black spots in his vision began to fade. The lights were aggravating his headache and everything seemed so bright…

 _Bright light. Blinding. Bright as the sun if you stared into it on a hot summer day. But it wasn't hot, it was frigid. It was so cold the brightness ate into him and burned him with the ice..._

Another violent chill ran through him as he lifted his head and stared blindly into the brightness of the mirror. He couldn't see anything, but his heart was pounding as if he should be terrified of what was before him. Blinking rapidly, he tried to clear his vision, tried to sort out the confusing sensations that were washing over him. It was too much to unravel at the moment, though, so he turned his attention back to what he needed to do.

Slowly recovering, he kept his elbows and forearms braced on the counter while he reached for his toothbrush. Somehow he managed to get his teeth brushed without falling over. Finishing up, he dropped the toothbrush on the counter and rinsed his mouth out a few times. No matter how much he had scrubbed or how many times he rinsed, though, all he could taste was blood.

Shuddering, he turned the water off, then he took his time straightening back up because his center of balance still had a long ways to go to recover.

The further upright he got, the more unsteady he felt. So he paused, halfway slumped against the door for support. With a shaky hand, he reached up and flipped the light off, hoping to ease what was rapidly escalating into a full blown migraine. The darkness was good for a split second before it was completely _not good!_ and he was fumbling frantically for the light switch again.

He couldn't find it and his heart rate spiked as he slammed his hand against the wall, searching for the light switch in growing panic. Finally, he turned and began fumbling at the door, desperate to get out of the blackness that was weighing him down, swallowing him alive, dragging him back to the pit of…

"Dean!" He shouted at the top of his lungs.

Sam found the door knob at almost the exact same second he heard a muffled thud from somewhere on the other side of the door. He yanked back on the door, tripping in his haste to get out of the dark bathroom. The light in the room beyond blinded him and his legs buckled. He was on his way to the ground when he stumbled straight into something that grabbed at him. He instantly tried to pull away, terror washing over him, leaving him shivering and barely conscious.

"Sam?" A concerned voice broke through the terror and Sam stopped struggling as he registered Dean's presence. Dean's voice was hoarse, broken as he asked, "What is it? What's wrong? What happened?"

Sam could tell something was wrong. Dean seemed panic-stricken and Sam wanted to answer him, but he couldn't speak, couldn't find a single word to say. Because he didn't know what was wrong. Couldn't remember what had happened. Mind frighteningly blank, he blinked up at Dean, searching for answers even as he realized he kind of wanted to fall asleep.

And, as if his legs finally registered the fact he was bone-weary, they completely gave out and he felt himself falling to the floor again.

"No, no, no, no, no come on, man." Dean urged, his panic muted by an attempt at being soothing and reassuring. His grip on Sam tightened fractionally, but he was being so gentle that it hurt. Not physically, but in some other intangible way that made Sam want to cry.

Sam felt himself land on something soft that didn't feel like the floor.

"Hey, you're ok, you're ok." Dean said, hands gripping his shoulders, face level with Sam's. "You with me?"

Sam thought he should probably reply, but his eyes were slipping closed. And then he felt himself falling backwards and even the firm grip Dean had on his shoulders wasn't enough to calm his anxiety as to where he was falling. Even Dean's soothing, "That's it, you just need some sleep," wasn't soothing enough to convince him to fall back onto the bed. He jerked upright, nearly smacking into Dean's face.

"Dean?" He gasped, clumsy fingers closing around the fabric of Dean's jacket.

"Right here." Dean's voice evened out and Sam picked up on the distinct note of weariness now that the panic had begun to dissipate.

Sam blinked a few times and Dean's blurry face came into focus. Swallowing hard against the dry, painful lump in his throat, Sam said, "You look tired."

Dean's eyes widened in surprise, then he broke out in a grin and said, "You think _I_ look tired? Didn't look in the mirror while you were in there, I take it, zombie boy?"

Sam smiled without meaning to, his exhausted brain simply latching on to the familiar humor and taking a measure of comfort in it. He shook his head slowly and said, "I looked."

Dean blinked like _he_ was confused and not Sam which Sam thought was odd since he was pretty sure Dean couldn't possibly be more confused than he was. Dean frowned and prompted, "Sam?"

Realizing Dean couldn't read his mind, or his rambling thoughts, not that he'd probably want to, Sam stammered out, "I...I looked. In the...the mirror."

A hint of understanding lit Dean's eyes this time and he said, "Ah. Yeah, well then you should have been able to see that you look about a hundred times worse than I do."

"I didn't see….anything." Sam whispered, his head dipping forward; too heavy to hold up any more. He heard Dean's soft curse and then his head hit something solid.

A warm hand ran through his wet hair, then gently gripped the back of his neck. Dean's voice was right in his ear, almost a whisper, "You're freezing, man. Obviously you didn't leave me any hot water. Such a bitch."

Sam laughed, except it sounded like a sob and he couldn't reply like he knew Dean was hoping. He just let his head rest on his brother's shoulder and tried to remember why he felt like crap. Dean held on to him, one hand still pressed against his neck, the other gently running up and down his back. After a little while, he felt himself slumping further into his brother and that was when Dean shifted and gently eased him back up.

"Ok, time for you to lay down." Dean's voice was quiet and calming in the haze of darkness that drifted over him, threatening to pull him under.

Sam tried to focus on him through the fog as Dean kept talking. He couldn't quite make out what Dean was saying anymore, but Dean's eyes gave away his concern, and Sam wanted to let him know he didn't have to worry, but all he managed to whisper was, "'m thirsty."

"Yeah?" Dean sounded pretty happy about that, so Sam figured it had been the right thing to say. Dean ducked his head a bit, trying to catch Sam's gaze as his head started drifting lower by its own volition. Amusement won over concern this time, and Dean smirked, "If I let go of you, you're gonna face-plant on the floor, dude."

Sam shook his head and it felt like he was swinging a hundred pound weight back and forth. He put his hands against the bed and braced himself even if he couldn't quite keep his head all the way up.

Dean rolled his eyes and said, "Ok. Stay put, Sleepy."

Sam wanted to snap at him to just hurry the hell up, but all that came out was a groan. He closed his eyes and held onto the edge of the bed for all he was worth. It seemed like a million years passed before he realized Dean was talking to him again. He blinked and tuned in to what Dean was saying.

"Hold on just a minute, longer ok? Then you can go to sleep." Dean said, with a forced smile, trying to sound lighthearted despite the undisguised concern in his bloodshot eyes. "Take a drink, then you can sleep till Christmas. I've extended the offer."

That sounded wonderful so Sam forced himself to concentrate on taking a drink of whatever it was Dean was offering him. It was probably Gatorade, he decided, tasting the sickly sweet flavor. It made him gag and he choked on the sip.

"Easy. You're ok. Just take it slow." Dean's voice was loud in his ears, "Do not throw up. You hear me? You're dehydrated. Take one more sip."

He didn't want it and fought the desire to spit it all back up even as Dean urged him to take another drink. Swallowing hard, Sam forced himself to ignore the burning nausea. He lifted a shaky hand and swiped it over his mouth.

"You ok?" Dean asked, still crouched on the floor in front of him.

"I…" Sam's whisper turned into a choked off gasp and he shook his head, fighting to keep eye contact with Dean as he said, "I can't remember...I can't remember what happened…"

"Hey, don't worry about it." Dean was shaking his head, hand back behind Sam's neck. He said, "Seriously. Do not even go there. You don't need to think about it. You just need to sleep."

Sam squeezed his eyes closed for a minute, then looked back at Dean, desperation clawing up his throat like a live creature as he said, "Where are we? Dean…"

"Motel. Nowheresville, Indiana. Lovely place for a vacation." Dean said and Sam was just tired enough to accept Dean's placating words for what they were.

Still staring at him like he was a bug under a microscope, Dean asked, "You want another drink?"

"Everything hurts." Sam whispered, not even realizing he hadn't answered Dean's question. The throbbing in his head escalated and he felt sickeningly faint.

Dean said, "Ok, ok. We can deal with that. Hold on."

Sam didn't want to break it to his brother that he wasn't gonna be able to hold on much longer. But it seemed to make Dean happy to be doing something, so Sam kept his mouth shut and held onto the edge of the bed. Dean was back in a heartbeat.

"Extra strength Tylenol." Dean prompted.

Sam took the pills with another swallow of Gatorade, his ability to focus nearly depleted. Dean's face swam in front of him and he reached up to grab onto Dean's jacket to keep him still. It didn't help and Sam squeezed his eyes closed instead, desperate to stop the feeling of bobbing in a choppy sea.

"You are so wasted," Dean said, even quieter than before. He didn't sound amused anymore; he sounded sympathetic, "Come on, lay down."

Sam didn't fight the pull of gravity this time, or Dean's guiding hands, as they lured him toward the bed. His head hit something soft and he felt Dean pushing his heavy legs up onto the bed. A second later and a blanket was pulled over him and he was so close to falling asleep that it felt particularly cruel when a surge of panic washed over him in a rush and he was trying to sit up again, flailing hands reaching desperately for something, _anything_ , to hold on to.

"Sam! Hey, calm down." Dean said, pushing him back against the pillow easily as his pathetic reserve of strength failed him.

He managed to catch hold of Dean's sleeve and he held on for dear life. Dean didn't pull away, but dropped heavily onto the bed next to him. As utterly done in as he was, Sam could easily see that his brother looked no less exhausted than he felt.

Dean rubbed his eyes with his free hand and said, "Hell of a day, Sammy."

Sam agreed, but didn't have the strength to say so. Eyes heavy and almost blinded by darkness, Sam stared up at Dean; the only thing he could even see anymore.

Heart in his throat, he tried to convince himself that Dean was real. That he was actually there. That any of this was real.

As long as he kept his focus on Dean, he was ok. But he was terrified of what would happen if he ever did let his eyes fall closed for longer than a second. So he continued fighting against the exhaustion to keep his eyes on his brother. And Dean didn't look away.

After a silent moment, though, Dean smiled sadly, rested his hand on Sam's chest and said very softly, "You need to sleep, Sam. I'm not going anywhere, ok? Close your eyes. I'm not going anywhere."

And he sounded so absolute, so confident, so _real_ that when his eyes slid closed this time, Sam fell into the blackness of sleep without another second's hesitation.


	3. Chapter Three: A Little Worn Out

**Hi! Surprise I'm early! I wasn't sure I'd get this up tonight or not, but here it is! Chapter 4 is in progress so depending on how things go it might be up early next week. :) Thank you one and all for the fabulously encouraging reviews! They seriously brighten my day over and over again and it's so much fun writing knowing you're enjoying the story.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 3: A Little Worn Out**_

Dean was far too drained to even crack a smile at how quickly Sam had fallen asleep. For one thing, it wasn't all that funny. Not really. Not given the way it had been who knew how long since he'd actually slept. Not given the way he'd very nearly died. And not given the way he looked frightening fragile lying there against the pillow. His fingers were lax now against Dean's jacket sleeve, but Dean didn't pull away. He didn't dare do anything that would disturb the spell.

Dean lowered his head to rest in his free hand as he drew in a slow, calming breath. And then another. Because they were safe and Sam was sleeping, taking gentle breaths under Dean's left hand. For a long time that was all he did.

Sit there and breathe and try to wrap his mind around the fact that Sam was Lucifer-free.

A shudder ran through him at the very thought; nausea barreling into him like a sucker punch and he pointed his face toward the towel on the floor in case he lost his control over his stomach. A thousand images flashed in his mind. Images of his brother saving the world only to be brought back soulless. Images of Death putting that much-missed, but unfathomably wrecked soul back where it belonged. And all the unspeakable misery and terror that had followed that moment and nearly driven them both crazy; _had_ driven Sam crazy.

 _I need a drink,_ he thought, his mind focusing on the one and only thing lately that helped calm the raging storm in his mind.

Lifting his heavy head, Dean stared at his brother for a few more long moments. He wasn't sure if he were waiting for Sam to have a nightmare or for him to wake up talking to the devil. That thought flared something bright and painful in his chest and he curled into himself, trying to tamp down on the panic. There was no need for panic. No need at all. They were safe. They were… _safe_? How could they ever be safe? His mind shifted back into overdrive for a few seconds, then the lightheadedness started to get the better of him and he knew he needed to eat something before he passed out.

 _Again._

Falling back on the bed earlier had not been his proudest moment, but he couldn't deny that the little inadvertent rest hadn't done him some good; it had. And at least he'd had the dignity to hit the bed and not the floor. Even so, it worried him that he'd been out of it long enough that Sam had taken his shower and gotten dressed without him even being aware enough to offer help if it were needed. The pain in his chest only worsened as he wondered if Sam _had_ been calling for him while he'd been unconscious.

He didn't know exactly how long he'd been out, and he'd slowly been coming back to awareness to what had sounded like frantic pounding on a door when he had clearly heard Sam shout his name. Sam's shout had him practically falling off the bed in his haste to get to his brother. A million worries had flown through his mind at the sound of Sam's distress. Not the least of which was the terrifying thought that maybe Cas hadn't cured Sam as well as they'd hoped; that maybe something was very wrong.

Dean still wasn't quite sure that something wasn't very wrong.

Even with Sam now sleeping soundly and apparently comfortably in front of him, Dean found himself unable _not_ to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. As the case was, though, the thing most likely to drop was him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. With another slow breath, Dean carefully pulled his arm away from Sam. He held his breath and hoped the movement wouldn't wake him. Sam didn't so much as twitch. Dean could feel him shivering though, and pulled the comforter up over him after he pushed himself up from the bed. For the moment at least, he felt pretty confident that Sam would remain where he was for the time being.

Crossing the short distance from the bed to the table where he'd placed his purchases earlier was an exercise in concentration and endurance. He was far more unsteady than he'd realized. All but collapsing into a chair, Dean looked back across the room, making sure his movement hadn't awakened Sam. Not apparently, Dean snorted, seeing that his brother hadn't so much as twitched. Focusing on himself for the moment, Dean lifted shaking hands to the bag of food. He pushed the bottle of Tylenol aside, then thought better of it. Because, quite frankly, his head was pounding.

Pouring the pills out, he ended up with three in his hand and half a dozen all over the table. Frustrated, he scraped the loose pills into a pile and left them in the middle of the table. His fingers were uncoordinated enough as it was without trying to pick up all the tiny pills and put them back in the bottle. He wrenched the lid off a bottle of beer and downed the pills in his hand. Four long chugs later and the beer was gone, but not his worry.

Gaze drifting inevitably back over to Sam, Dean satisfied himself that his brother was still asleep, then popped the top on another beer. Halfway through with the second bottle, he finally felt steady enough to dig for some food. Not that he'd bought much in his haste. Settling for a bag of chips, Dean leaned back in the chair.

"It's all good." He whispered to the quiet room. "We're ok."

His only response was the drifting of the ugly paisley curtains in a draft from the cracked window. Late afternoon sunshine filtered in, dancing in shimmering patterns across the table and onto the bedspreads. Dropping the bag of chips, Dean reached back and yanked the curtains closed like he should have when they'd first arrived. Aware that he'd just made more noise than he should have, Dean guiltily glanced at Sam to find him still, thankfully, snoozing undisturbed.

Breathing in the dust from the curtains, Dean sneezed, then cursed and put both hands to his pounding head. The headache didn't seem likely to dissipate from will power alone, and somehow he doubted the Tylenol was really going to do much either. Grimacing, he straightened and grabbed the beer again, shooting another look at Sam. It was probably a little creepy, something Sam would no doubt harass him about if he were remotely aware, but Dean couldn't help it. Seeing Sam asleep shouldn't have been such a novelty, but tragically it was just that.

Finishing off the second beer and half the bag of chips, Dean ran a hand over his face and decided maybe getting some sleep of his own wouldn't be the worst idea. Because he was flat out exhausted. Taking a road trip from Indiana to Montana to Colorado and back again in a handful of days had been a move born of desperation; not necessarily of good sense. Good sense or not, it had been the only play left in the book and he'd found paydirt. Paydirt in the form of someone he had never expected to see again. And just like that, the spike of pain in his chest was back.

 _Cas._

The angel had saved Sam's life, given him back his sanity. Dean stared at Sam in the muted darkness and knew that it had been the right move. Couldn't find it in himself to honestly feel too broken up about what Cas was going through.

Because _Cas_ had been the one to do it to Sam in the first place.

Tightening his fists on his lap, Dean fought the urge to punch a wall or smash a bottle. Even if he felt a sick sort of justification for leaving Cas back there, tortured, catatonic and forgotten, it didn't completely erase the pain of knowing he'd walked out on someone he had once considered a friend. And just like that, the anger faded and he was left with the ever deepening pit of loss in his stomach and he really needed to stop _thinking_ and start _doing_. He knew he couldn't shut down now.

There were monsters of every sort out there looking for them. There were monsters who could wear any face they wanted and who could eat you alive. And monsters with black eyes and lying tongues. They were running very short on safe places to hide these days.

He needed to make sure they were safe. Find them a place to lay low, out of sight, out of danger for a few days. This roadside motel was not that place. It was exactly the type of place their enemies would expect them to go. It had been a necessity, of course, pulling off when he had and getting his brother horizontal, but they needed to be further off the grid than some no-tell motel on the side of the road in Indiana. Needed an out of the way place where Sam could recover before they went back out into the fight.

Because he knew better than to expect that one good night's sleep was going to put Sam back together the way the devil had originally found him.

Which meant he needed to be ready to deal with the fall out when Sam woke up. Slowly getting back to his feet, Dean crossed the room again and took another assessing look at his brother. He probably should have checked him out a bit more earlier, but he wasn't going to disturb him now to check his ribs or his wrist or ask about any of the other thousand things that could be hurting him.

" _Everything hurts."_

Sam's whispered admission came back to him and Dean knew Sam hadn't been exaggerating. He still looked like he was hurting, even sound asleep. But he seemed to be deeply asleep in spite of it, so there really wasn't anything else Dean could do.

Deciding to take a quick shower, Dean took a step forward, then quickly changed his direction. He didn't know how Sam had managed to stay upright long enough to take a shower. Collapsing face first onto his bed, Dean thought maybe a quick nap would be a reasonable idea. He tilted his head until he could see Sam, and settled his arms comfortably under the pillow. It was only late in the afternoon, but it felt like he'd been awake forever.

Quick nap. Then a shower. Then time to figure out a better, safer place to lay low for a few days.

Dean forced his eyes open, not quite willing to let Sam out of his sight yet. But even his will power was no match for the overpowering fatigue that settled over him and dragged him into sleep.

* * *

He woke up gasping for breath, unable to remember what the nightmare had been about; the pulsing fear, though, _that_ he could still feel running through his blood, pounding in his temples. Eyes flew open to a dimly lit room and a still soundly sleeping little brother.

Dean swallowed hard, grimacing as he realized his face was in a pile of drool. Shifting slightly, he groaned as stiff and achy muscles protested. He rolled onto his right side but remained where he was. He studied Sam from across the space between the two beds. He hadn't moved at all as far as Dean could tell. Not that he had either, apparently. Feeling stiff and achy, he brought a hand up to rub at his sleep-crusted eyes. Dean vaguely remembered flopping down on his bed and then nothing. Glancing at his watch, he had to stare at it for over a minute just to make sense of what he was seeing.

0836.

 _Eight in the morning?_

It made no sense. He'd intended to take a short nap. It had barely been four-thirty in the afternoon. Dean stared at his watch as the time ticked over to 0837. He'd slept, _they'd_ slept, for _sixteen_ hours? It didn't seem possible, but after staring at his watch for three solid minutes, Dean gave up trying to convince himself otherwise. Lowering his arm, he looked at Sam again, a niggling whisper of worry creeping over him.

The easy rise and fall of Sam's chest and peaceful expression on his face remained unchanged as Dean watched for several minutes. The worry ebbed slightly and he slowly pushed himself upright. For a few minutes, he sat on the edge of the bed waiting for his head to stop spinning. Being flat on a bed for sixteen hours was great in some ways, not so great in many others. Rubbing the back of his stiff neck, Dean decided a hot shower and then some coffee were the next priorities. If Sam didn't wake up after that, he'd go pay for another night. If he woke up, maybe they'd head out and find another place to hole up.

Plan organized, Dean stood up and grabbed his gear from off the bed next to him. He flipped on the bathroom light and did a double take at the mess in front of him. Dean liked to give his brother a hard time about his penchant for organization and neatness. Fact was, Sam had always tended to be a bit on the OCD side. And it didn't take a shrink to know that in no small way it was how he had coped as a kid with their transient lifestyle. He'd never really grown out of it either, and Dean knew it only got worse when he was stressed. Which should have meant the bathroom would be pristine. Dean might even have given him a pass for being so tired and expected a little less than usual orderliness, but this...was something else entirely.

Sam's discarded clothes lay like a carpet across the floor. His backpack was in front of the tub, contents spilling out everywhere. Towel on the edge of the tub, toothbrush discarded on the counter and the toothpaste squeezed in the middle and laying in an oozy mess of minty freshness. Dean wanted to laugh. Wished he could laugh about it. Wished he could take a picture of it and harass his brother about it the next time Sam complained about him tossing fast food wrappers at a trashcan and missing it completely.

Instead, he rubbed at his chest where the worry had begun to flare again and dumped his gear on the counter. Then he did something that he hadn't really done for the better part of two decades. He picked up after his brother. Cleaning up the bathroom didn't take long, but by the time he'd finished and wiped up the toothpaste, he was ready for another nap. One last check of his brother, and Dean turned the hot water on in the shower, yawning as he did so. How he could be so tired after sleeping as long as he had was a mystery for another time, Dean decided, leaving the bathroom door half opened as he started undressing.

It wasn't a relaxing shower because he was in a hurry and straining to listen for any sound of distress from the other room the entire time. But it did help wake him up a bit more and shake off the last of the fog from sleeping so long. Now he just needed coffee and breakfast. Wrapping a towel around himself, he took a quick peek into the other room.

Door still bolted.

Brother still asleep.

Nodding in satisfaction, Dean retreated back into the steamy bathroom and got dressed. Shaving could wait. His stomach was unsettled and insisting he eat something _now_ and he was never one to ignore his stomach. Of course, eating half a bag of Doritos and two beers for dinner the night before hadn't been his brightest move and he ignored the faint nausea as he flipped off the bathroom light.

A horn blared on the road in front of the motel, startling him, but Sam didn't seem to notice. Dean shrugged and started preparing the mundane complimentary coffee. Once it was brewing, he turned his attention to the table, wondering if he had actually grabbed anything that could reasonably pass as breakfast food. Unfortunately he hadn't even grabbed pop tarts. Sighing, Dean settled for a stick of jerky which was not in the slightest appetizing.

Apparently he wasn't the only one who thought so.

Dean spun around to the sound of vomiting and tossed the jerky on the table, rushing across the room in time to catch Sam by the shoulders before he fell over the edge of the bed. He wasn't bringing up anything more than what had probably been last night's Gatorade, but that didn't make Dean feel any better about the situation. It took less than a minute before Sam was done gagging and all the tension instantly melted out of him. Settling him back on the bed was like maneuvering a dead fish, Dean decided, crouching in front of his brother.

"Sam?"

"Hm?" Sam groaned more than answered, bringing his right arm clumsily up to cover his eyes.

"How ya doin'?" Dean asked stupidly. As dumb a question as it had been, he couldn't help smiling as Sam raised one shaking finger in a distinct, if bitchy, reply. _At least he's sort of alert,_ Dean thought, then said, "I know, man. Sorry."

Sam didn't move or reply; his breathing unsteady and pained.

Dean sighed, "Hang on a sec."

Still not receiving a reply, Dean simply stood up and headed for the bathroom. Getting a washcloth under the cold water, he threw a hand towel over his shoulder, then squeezed out the washcloth. Dropping the towel over the small puddle on the carpet, Dean nudged Sam's hand away from his face.

"Put this over your eyes for a minute." He instructed, hating how bad Sam looked in the pale light drifting in around the closed curtains.

As far as Dean had seen, his eyes had been tightly closed the entire time and they were sunken and dark; a startling contrast to the rest of his face which was washed out like death. He settled the washcloth over Sam's eyes, noticing the shiver run through him at the contact of the cold cloth.

"You cold?" Dean asked, just to say something.

Anything.

The silence was scaring him. He hadn't expected that Sam would exactly be the life of the party yet, but he _had_ hoped for him to seem a little better than this after a long night's sleep. How long did it take to catch up on sleep?

He stayed silent, crouched by the bed, waiting for a response. He didn't get one. After a few silent minutes passed, Dean felt the anxiety creeping up on him again. _He's fine. He needs more sleep_ , he tried to tell himself. But Sam was obviously not fine and he needed to keep fluids down and he needed to eat and he needed to look like he was going to survive this. Standing up abruptly, Dean reached for the bottle of Gatorade he'd left on the nightstand.

"Sam?"

This time he received a wordless groan for his troubles.

"Need to drink something."

"No."

Dean rolled his eyes. First clear thing he'd said so far and it was _no_. Sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, Dean said, "Wrong answer. You need to drink something."

"Did."

"What? Last night?" Dean asked, shaking his head, "That doesn't count. You just hurled that all up."

Sam didn't reply.

"Sam. Seriously. I know you feel like crap, but being dehydrated is not helping anything." Dean said, nudging him in the shoulder. "Come on. You gotta try."

"No."

"Sam."

Silence.

This was going well.

Dean sighed, "You gotta drink something or you're gonna get sick." _Sicker_ , he amended in his head, trying to calculate how long it had been since Sam had eaten or had enough water to keep a bird alive. Two sips of Gatorade that came back up didn't exactly instill confidence. Worry bubbling up yet again, he shook his head and some of the tension leaked out in his voice as he said, "You get worse and I'm gonna have to take you to a clinic or a hospital or something."

Dean regretted his words immediately when the word _hospital_ made Sam flinch like he'd been punched. He hadn't meant it as a threat. If he had his way he'd never go near a hospital of any sort ever again. But the simple fact was, deep down, he didn't know if this was really something they were going to be able to handle on their own.

"Sorry." Dean forced himself to lower his voice, resting a hand on Sam's arm; he could feel him trembling even through the blanket. He hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. Let him sleep a little longer? But he wasn't going to get better without some fluids and something to eat, the nagging worry insisted. Trying again, Dean said, "Come on. Try a sip and…"

"No."

"Sam," Dean's voice crept up in volume again; the words spilling out in a rush, "take a sip. That's all I'm asking." When he got nothing but silence again, the worry snapped what little control he possessed and he said much too loudly, "Sam!"

"Stop yelling at me!" Sam choked out breathlessly. He turned his head away and pressed a hand against his eyes and moaned in a way that made Dean's teeth hurt.

Or maybe it was the way he was clenching his jaw.

Either way, this was _so_ not how he had expected the day to be going. As bad as things were, he certainly hadn't wanted to make things worse. Dean sighed and several minutes passed in silence. He could tell Sam was trying to get himself under control. When some of the tension began to ease, Dean decided it might be safe to speak up again.

 _Softly_.

"Sam?"

"What?" Frustration was no longer present in his tone. Now he just sounded wiped out.

 _You know what_ was on the tip of Dean's tongue, but he had enough wisdom to hold back on that gem. Instead, feeling utterly helpless, he asked, "What can I do?"

Sam sighed, but lowered his hand, pulling the washcloth away from his face. He tried forcing his eyes open for all of a split second, before squeezing them closed again. He said, "Too bright."

"Sorry, man. Not a high class joint. Curtains are a bit thin." Dean said, wondering why it had to be a sunny morning. The flimsy curtains were doing their very best, which was very little, to keep the sun out.

"Where're we?" Sam asked, squinting up at him in a way that made Dean wonder if he was really seeing anything. His voice was hoarse like he'd been screaming for hours and, even though he hadn't been, it still turned Dean's stomach.

"Indiana somewhere." Dean shrugged. There were so many more pressing issues, but if Sam wanted to know the zip code, he'd damn well go find out for him.

Sam blinked a few times, then clumsily rubbed at his eyes before dropping his hand back to his chest. After a few seconds, he mumbled, "Did you ask me a question?"

His eyes weren't any more clear, but Dean could see the rusty wheels starting to turn again. Dean smiled, "Do you want to try to drink something?"

"I'm thirsty." Sam said agreeably.

If he'd forgotten everything that had happened five minutes ago, Dean couldn't find it in himself to care at the moment. Short term memory loss had its advantages as long as Sam was willing to try to take a drink. Twisting the cap off, Dean held the Gatorade up.

Sam shook his head and whispered, "Water."

"Sam…"

"Water." Sam repeated, closing his eyes and swallowing hard.

Dean blew out a short breath, then crossed the room for a bottle of water. It was a start. If he held it down for more than ten minutes maybe he'd be willing to try something with some sugar. Because by now Dean was under no illusion that Sam was going to be interested in eating anything for awhile yet, but he needed some calories one way or another.

"Ok, water." Dean said, opening the bottle and sitting back down.

"Hm."

"Wake up."

"What?" Sam squinted at him again.

This was both really annoying and kind of funny, Dean decided. He said, "Water. You're thirsty, remember?"

"Yeah." This time Sam nodded and his eyes were just a bit clearer.

"Glad we got that figured out." Dean said with a smile. He eased Sam upright just a bit and was only slightly surprised when he started drinking like he'd been in a desert for a month. Dean pushed him back down after a few seconds and said, "Easy. Let's not have a repeat of earlier, ok?"

Sam frowned at him, fighting hard to keep his eyes uncrossed as he asked, "Earlier?"

"Yeah. When you…" Dean broke off. If Sam didn't remember puking, he certainly wasn't going to remind him. The water had gone down and he wanted it to stay that way. Shaking his head, Dean said, "Never mind. How you doing now?"

"Headache."

"Figured. See how the water settles then you can try some Tylenol in a bit, ok?"

Sam's groan told Dean exactly what his brother thought of that suggestion.

"Well alrighty then." Dean whispered, running a hand through his still damp hair, at a complete loss.

 _Things are really looking up,_ he thought dismally.

* * *

 **Sigh. Poor Dean. So optimistic isn't he? Well, he has good reason to be pessimistic...**


	4. Ch4 A Little Restless from the Searching

**Surprise! Hi everyone! So...I haven't had the chance to reply to all your wonderful reviews from Ch3, but I will! But I had this finished and was like "Hm...maybe they'd like to read chapter 4 sometime today." So I decided to see if that was something you all would be interested in. :D Hope so! Enjoy.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 4: A Little Restless from the Searching**_

Dean stared at the clock and tried to choke down another bite of beef jerky; wishing for the thousandth time that he'd grabbed a breakfast muffin or two from the gas station last night. Swallowing a gulp of lukewarm coffee, his gaze returned to his brother. The coffee was going down about as well as the jerky was, but at least the coffee was helping his mental processing speed up to more than a crawl. Taking another bite of jerky, he looked back to the clock. Nine-thirty now.

Bite of jerky, watch the clock.

Sip of coffee, watch Sam sleep.

 _Rinse. Repeat._

Sam hadn't so much as stirred since he'd taken the sip of water thirty minutes ago.

Jerky. Clock. Coffee. Sam.

Dean rested his elbows on his knees and wrapped both hands around the cup when he ran out of jerky. He hadn't been able to rouse Sam again to get him to take any Tylenol and he was still trying to convince himself that it was ok. He didn't quite believe it yet.

He finished the last cup of coffee which did little to help anything except make him _very_ alert to the level of his anxiety. Every loud noise made him jump and he'd lost count of how many times he'd gone to the door, gun drawn, expecting a Leviathan or a demon to be standing there. Still holding the empty coffee cup, Dean's entire body shook from the caffeine rush and the nerves. _Probably shouldn't have had the entire pot,_ Dean mused, closing his eyes for a minute and trying not to throw up.

But he'd _needed_ the entire pot, small as it had been, to focus. He felt hungover and sick and it had to be from the exhaustion and the long night of sleep because he couldn't think of another reason. He'd only had two beers last night and hadn't even touched the good stuff. Keeping his head down for awhile longer, he finally started feeling a little less like he was about to hurl. Dean forced his head up and tried to will away the rest of the fog and cobwebs. He needed to be focused, needed to be in the game because Sam sure wasn't.

 _After sixteen hours of sleep, he should be more awake than this, shouldn't he?_

He was ok with Sam being tired. Exhausted, even. He'd expected that, even if the inevitable crash had taken a little longer to happen than he'd anticipated. Sam needed a lot more sleep to get back to normal. What Dean wasn't ok with was the ever increasing suspicion that there was more going on than met the eye.

Scrubbing at his eyes, Dean set aside the coffee cup and took up full time brother-observation. Was it just the sheer exhaustion or was something else wrong with him? Dean started wondering what really had happened while Sam had been at the hospital. Cold fear settled over him and he hated himself all over again for leaving his brother there without really doing anything to make sure he was safe. Who knew what those doctors had done to him? What medications they'd given him?

They'd been in such a hurry to leave after Cas had done whatever angelic surgery he had done that Dean hadn't even for one single second stopped to consider that maybe he should have dug around for medical records.

Now he was considering that he might have made a mistake.

The tension finally pushed him over the edge and he had to get up and move or he was going to explode. He paced the room a few dozen time, then went back to staring at the clock again. _Probably should go pay for another night_ , he finally decided. Because judging by Sam's general enthusiasm for the day, it didn't look like they were going anywhere. Taking another assessing glance at Sam, Dean sighed.

It didn't look like anything short of a bomb blast was going to disturb Sam's sleep, but Dean didn't intend to be gone longer than a minute or two because it would be just his luck that a freakin' bomb _would_ go off. And on the off chance that someone planned to blow up the town, Dean scribbled out a quick note that he doubted Sam would be able to read even if he did wake up enough to remember _how_ to read.

Leaving the note on Sam's chest where Dean felt absolutely no confidence of him ever seeing it, he grabbed his jacket and wallet and walked out the door without another look back. Faster he left, faster he came back, he thought, locking the door behind him. By the time he made it to the motel office, he was in nothing that so much as _resembled_ a good mood. Yanking the door open, he startled the poor clerk and almost felt bad about it.

Two minutes later, he didn't feel so bad.

"What do you mean we have to be out of the room by ten?" Dean growled, frustrated beyond words.

The girl's bright blue eyes widened and she stammered out, "I...I told you, sir, w...when you checked in yesterday! All the rooms are being repainted today."

"You didn't say that…" Dean broke off deciding he really didn't need to be yelling at the poor girl who looked as unhappy to be standing behind the front desk as he was to be standing in front of it.

Shaking his head and realizing she probably wasn't lying to him, that it was far more likely he'd been too distracted to care what she'd told him when he'd rushed to get the room yesterday. He tried for a smile and said, "Sorry. Had a lot on my mind. I probably just didn't hear you."

"I'm really sorry." She said, looking both apologetic and terrified.

Dean raised a hand, feeling incredibly weary, and said, "Not your fault. It's ok. Just one of those things. We'll head out soon."

He walked back to the room, not sure which was worrying him more. The thought that Sam might be awake, or the thought that he might _not_ be awake. Unlocking the door, Dean's worries were quickly upstaged by a new one. He was gonna have to wake Sam up and get him somehow coherent enough to get to the car. Considering how very _not_ coherent Sam had been half an hour ago, Dean was not feeling overly hopeful that this was going to be a smooth process.

* * *

"...you're too heavy…"

He recognized the voice.

"...already packed your crap…"

He even recognized the annoyed tone.

"Dude...seriously if you…"

The way it went in and out like bad reception on a radio station in the middle of nowhere was frustrating. Because, vaguely, he knew he should want to know the rest of these unconnected sentences. Curiosity left a lot to be desired as a motivating factor, though, and it was far easier to let the words go indistinct and blur out of his awareness. Staying in the quiet darkness felt like a much better plan.

But the voice wouldn't let him go this time.

"Wake up. Come on…"

He did his best to ignore it, but the voice insisted and then a hand started shaking his shoulder. It hurt. Everywhere. Hovering there, on the edge of the comfortable blackness, he felt himself pulled away despite his best efforts.

"There you go...come on, Sam. Open your eyes."

Like he'd been thrown into a brick wall by an angry spirit, he felt everything slam into him and shock him to awareness. It was so much less pleasant than the darkness of not knowing, not feeling, had been and he couldn't help but groan in complaint.

"I know. I'm sorry, man, I wouldn't do this if I had another option."

Forcing his eyes open because he heard desperation in the familiar voice this time, he blinked in the blinding light. It was too bright. Everywhere. _Too much, too much_. He couldn't see anything but the white hot light. It pounded into his head and he had to close his eyes again just so his head wouldn't explode.

Everything was too much. He could hear things now, things other than the voice. Noises everywhere, so loud, _so loud_ , and he dug his fingers into rough fabric at his sides and tried to remember how to breathe.

"You're ok."

 _No I'm not!_ He wanted to shout, but the last thing he needed was more noise. He flinched as a hand touched his arm. Tried to pull away, but it was like moving in slow motion. The hand was hot, burning hot and was tearing, ripping, shredding his skin…

 _Layer after layer peeled off until he couldn't even find the breath to scream anymore._

"No!"

Eyes flying open, disregarding the brightness, he fought back against the hand. Swinging a fist, he connected with the enemy somewhere, but even he could tell he'd barely touched him. He was winded already and his muscles ached and he couldn't keep fighting.

"Sam! Calm down, you're fine! It's me!"

His arms were pushed down, gently, and he felt the room spinning; thoughts, memories, nightmares all combining into one confusing kaleidoscope of color and noise and pain. Still trying to move away from the voice, the hands, he tried to focus through all of it and get a visual of the monster. A face flickered in and out of focus in front of his eyes. He could hear the steady drone of the voice in the background, but concentrating on the face took all his strength and he couldn't decipher the words anymore.

Breathing heavily, his chest hurting with each movement, he focused on the face. Blinking a few times to clear his vision so he could see what was trying to kill him, the brightness began to recede. The face was familiar. _It always is!_ A horrible voice in the back of his mind whispered. Tears burned and blurred his eyes, distorting his vision, but he'd seen enough.

He knew who it was.

"Dean?" His voice sounded strange, didn't sound right. Didn't sound like his voice at all. Sounded like someone who had been screaming for a hundred years….

"Sammy." Dean said softly, his entire body slumping forward, relief bright in his eyes.

Sam reached for him, not sure of anything. Touching the fabric of Dean's shirt, Sam frowned. Still not sure. Because he'd seen him before. Felt the familiar texture of his jacket, his shirt. And it had always been a lie. Swallowing against the pain in his throat, he whispered, "Dean?"

"Right here." Dean said just as softly. "You awake yet?"

He couldn't answer. The pain in his head was distracting and trying to have a conversation top of merely trying to sort out what _was_ and what _was not_ real quickly sapped his strength. He closed his eyes.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and this time it didn't feel like his skin was burning off. The voice, _Dean_ , said, "Try to stay awake, ok?"

"Mmhmm." Sam mumbled, forcing his eyes open again. They were sticky, heavy and felt as miserable as the rest of him. The more he tried to focus, the worse his headache became and the more he realized how badly every single muscle ached. His throat burned and he was desperate for "Water?"

"Yeah. Sure." Dean said immediately, "Right here."

Sam stared at him. Wished he could be sure. Wished he could remember _why_ he couldn't trust what was before his eyes. Dean was patiently waiting. Not saying anything, just sitting there waiting. After a long moment of staring at him, Sam finally found the courage to ask, "Are you really here?"

Something flickered in Dean's expression. _He looks terrible,_ Sam thought, wondering why Dean looked so _very sad_. Dean nodded and ran a hand over his face, then leaned down a bit closer and said, "I'm really here. You and me, really here, right now. Ok?"

"Ok." He agreed because he knew he was supposed to.

"Ok. How about a drink, then?"

Sam frowned, suddenly breathless with fear. S _omething evil, ugly, monsterous crept out of the pit of darkness he was floating in and claws dug into his stomach_. He flinched at the pain, _it is real pain isn't it?_ The room was too cold to breathe and the cold hurt his lungs and suddenly he was shaking so hard he was seeing stars.

"Sam? Hey, what's wrong?" Dean's voice was doing that in and out of reception thing again, making it hard to follow.

Looking up at him through the haze of pain, Sam could see that Dean looked more than tired. More than sad. _He looks scared_. Why? The chills wracked him, shaking the thought, and his breath, away.

Hands were all over him. _Too many, too much leave me alone please stop stop stop…_

"You gotta calm down, Sammy." Dean said, this time the words came through clearly. As did the worry in his tone. "Sam. You're ok. You're fine. I'm right here. Look at me."

 _Wasn't he already?_ Sam blinked, realizing that he'd closed his eyes at some point.

"That's it...now you gotta take a breath, dude." Dean sounded calm and frightened and oddly focused. "Take a breath. Right now would be good Sam."

Sucking in a breath hurt like being sawed in half, but Sam did it anyway. Anything to shut Dean up. Needed it to be quiet…

He gasped, hands reaching out and clamping onto something as he sucked in another breath.

"Easy. Slow and easy ok? You're fine." Dean kept on the soft encouragements, then snorted and said, "Dude, you're gonna break my arm. You got a good grip considering you look like two week old roadkill."

 _Roadkill_. _Blood. Insides on the outside and headless corpses flayed and burned._ The room went grey again and he was falling backwards into the darkness...

"Sam!" Dean's voice was no longer soft and Sam jerked again in his grasp. "Sam, forget about the roa...forget about what I said, ok? Shit, Sam I'm sorry. Listen to me, you're not there anymore. It's all over. You're fine. Ok? Come back here…"

Breaths still coming like punches to his chest, Sam couldn't stop the shaking, but he did stop trying unsuccessfully to writhe away from Dean's grasp on his shoulders. The room spun left, then right and he moaned, closing his eyes and hanging on desperately to whatever it was he was clinging to. _Arm? Dean's arm?_ He wanted to relax his grip, release his hand but he couldn't. If he let go he was going to fall off the world.

A hand, gentle-rough, was on his forehead, smoothing his hair away from his face. Dean sighed and his voice was soft, pained, as he whispered, "Aw, Sammy, you've got a fever."

 _Freezing_ , Sam wanted to reply. Because the last thing he felt was hot. As if to confirm his thoughts, he started shivering even more.

Dean's hand moved to his arm again, gently rubbing it as if trying to warm him up. It wasn't helping but Sam didn't bother to say so. He just tried to believe he was safe and warm and that all of this was real.

"This is so screwed up." Dean muttered, as if to himself. "I _would_ pick the freakin motel under renovations."

Sam had no idea what that meant but clearly it was upsetting Dean and panic began to bubble up again. He clenched his hand around Dean's arm even tighter.

Dean sighed and said, "Look. One thing at a time. Right? All we gotta do. One thing at a time."

Sounded like he was trying to convince himself, tell himself what he needed to do. _It's not Dean. He's never not sure. He always has a plan always knows what he's doing. Something's wrong._ He pulled his hand away.

"Sam?" Dean asked, his tone no longer uncertain but filled with concern now. "What's wrong?"

"Not here."

Dean's expression wavered between anger and utter fear. He leaned closer, his hands tightening on Sam's shoulders until it was actually painful. Sam didn't fight this time. He was too scared to move.

Dean's voice lowered as he spoke, "Sam. You need to listen to me. I'm only going to say this once. One time. You paying attention?"

Sam nodded, afraid not to agree, even though something in him was relaxing a bit at the sound of absolute conviction in Dean's voice.

Dean nodded too, already looking calmer. He said, "We're gonna settle this once and for all _right_ now. I know your mind is a mess. You're a mess, I get it. I do. I don't blame you. But you're gonna have to believe me when I tell you this. You're out. You're gonna be fine. I know you're having trouble sorting out what's going on and I know your memories are shot. We'll get it all straightened out. We will. You just gotta promise me something, Sammy."

"What?" Sam whispered, mouth dry.

"Promise me you won't freak out." Dean said somberly, then grinned, "There's a strong possibility that your laptop has a virus."

Sam laughed.

It hurt, it sounded all wrong and he felt tears running down his cheeks, but he laughed. Dean's grin widened and he looked a whole lot better. He looked like himself. Sam wiped at his eyes with uncoordinated and shaking hands and said hoarsely, "You are such a jerk."

"And don't you forget it, bitch." Dean nodded, smacking him in the shoulder with the back of his hand. Sam smiled again briefly, then sighed. A hand smacked him again and Dean asked, "You alright?"

Sam didn't have a good answer for that.

"Dumb question."

"Not your brightest, I'll admit." Sam said, amusement winning out over utter weariness.

"Shut up, Sleeping Beauty." Dean rolled his eyes. "Let me rephrase my question. I know you're not alright. But how are you doing now? Your brain any less scrambled?"

"Getting there." Sam said softly. And he mostly believed it.

"We can work with that. At least you seem to really be awake this time."

"Dean?" Sam asked, hating to ask the question, but knowing he couldn't possibly move forward without knowing.

"Yeah?"

"Is he...it's just that...it's so quiet." Every word hurt like a blade in his throat. Eyes scanning the room, he finally sought Dean's gaze again and whispered, "Is he…"

"He's gone." Dean said firmly, his gaze unwavering.

Warmth rushed over him, but he felt himself shivering all the same. The world greyed out again.

"Sam!" Dean's voice was loud in the darkness. "You look like you're gonna pass out. Stay with me here, ok? It's not naptime yet, you big baby. You just woke up."

Sam forced his eyes open. Dean smiled and said, "Good job." He shook his head, "You're gonna give me a heart attack, man."

"Sorry."

"Don't let it happen again." Dean said, then reached for something. He sat back and waved a bottle of water. "How about you try a sip now?"

He was desperate to sooth the burning pain in his throat, but he wasn't sure he could actually manage to swallow. Or sit up. Sam's expression must have clearly conveyed his thought process because Dean said, "One thing at a time, remember? I'll handle the hard work. You just try not to faint."

"Not gonna faint." Sam whispered, sounding faint even to his own ears.

Dean grinned, "Keep telling yourself that, cuz you're not convincing anyone yet. You're the color of a marshmallow."

Wanting to protest the comparison, Sam couldn't gather the words before he felt Dean's hand under his head. Even though Dean was slow and excruciatingly gentle, the world spun.

"Just stay with me." Dean said, obviously picking up on what was happening.

Sam knew his eyes were open this time, but all he saw was darkness. Dean was still there, though, and guiding the bottle of water. It was a good thing Dean was holding it, because Sam was having enough trouble just remembering how to swallow. The water tasted like a liquid miracle and he couldn't get enough to satisfy his thirst. Too soon, Dean pulled it away and eased his head back down to the pillow.

"Still with me?" Dean asked.  
"Yeah." He couldn't see straight but he wasn't lost in the darkness.

"Good. How's the water sitting?"

"Ok." Sam said, even though his stomach didn't agree.

Dean nodded and asked, "What do you think about trying to sit up a bit?"

If he were to answer that one honestly, the answer would be _please no!_ He could tell from Dean's expression that that answer would not be acceptable. So he just shrugged and hoped that would be enough.

"Yeah, I can feel the enthusiasm there." Dean said dryly. "Look man, I wouldn't even be bothering you if I didn't have to be."

"We gotta go." Sam said, realization dawning as he read between the lines of his brother's statement.

"Yeah." Dean said it like a curse word, "We're being evicted."

"Don't get evicted from motels." Sam mumbled, eyes sliding closed.

"What?"

Too tired to bother to answer, Sam just shot Dean an annoyed look.

Dean rolled his eyes and said, "Don't correct my grammar. You're too tired."

"Semantics." Sam said before he could help himself.

"You're such a hopeless nerd, you know that?" Dean said, rearranging pillows as he talked, "If you're well enough to harass me about my grammar…"

"Semantics."

"...then you're well enough to sit up."

Sam disagreed wholeheartedly, already tiring from the conversation alone.

Dean leaned closer and said, "Stop stressing about it. I'm gonna do all the hard work. You just focus on not fainting."

"Not gonna faint."

"Uh huh." Dean said brightly, "Here we go."

Before he could even think to protest, the world turned to a new, darker shade of black and he was fumbling for something to hold onto.

"I've got you." Dean said, working quickly and easily. "Try to open your eyes, ok?"

"Open."

"No they're not."

Sam blinked, and sure enough they hadn't been open. Dean's face hovered in his vision and he asked, "So. How's it feel to be sitting up?"

"Am I sitting up?" Sam asked, shifting slightly.

"Well, you're up on three pillows so that's an improvement."

"Doesn't feel like an improvement." Sam said, fisting his hands in the sheets, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"I'm sure it doesn't."

"What's the timetable?" Sam swallowed hard against the nausea.

Dean glanced at his watch and said, "All the time in the world."

"How long?"

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Give me a couple minutes." Sam waved a hand, "Go pack the car."

"I already packed everything but you." Dean grinned. "Would've dragged you out too, but you're actually kind of heavy."

Rubbing his eyes, Sam asked, "You packed my toothbrush?"

"Dude, I picked up your dirty laundry. Like when you were _five_." Dean said, holding up the water again. "Want more?"

"Yes, but no."

Dean grimaced and lowered the bottle. He said, "Sit tight."

 _Like I'm going anywhere_ , Sam thought. He watched with bleary eyes as Dean moved around the room, then dumped something on the bed next to him. Trying to focus on it, Sam asked, "What's that?"

"Your jacket, moron." Dean said, sitting on the edge of the bed again. "You're shivering."

"I'm freezing."

"Yeah and we gotta work on getting that fever down. But if you aren't up to more water yet, I doubt the Tylenol is going to sit very well."

"Let's go."

"No rush. We can wait a little…"

"Just help me? Let's get out of here." Sam said, not wanting to do anything of the sort. He started to push aside the blanket.

Dean sighed, but nodded, helping pull back the covers. He said, "Watch your ribs and let me get you up, ok?"

Putting a hand to his aching chest, Sam let Dean do all the work because he had no other choice. His feet hit the ground and the room went black. He didn't fall over and, after an indeterminate amount of time, light and sound began to filter in again.

"Sam?"

"Here."

"Good. You're looking a little green. Don't hurl on me, ok?"

"Don't...say….that." Sam whispered, tilting his head down.

"You got your balance?"

 _No!_ Sam thought, but all he said was, "Yeah."

"Don't go anywhere."

"Where're you…"

"Getting your boots. Hold on."

Sam held onto the edge of the bed as Dean moved away. He asked, "Where're we going?"

"I don't know." Dean said tiredly, coming back over and putting Sam's boots on for him. Humiliated, but too miserable to care, Sam let him.

"We could go to Bobby's…" Sam said, dizzy and ill. The room seemed to be tilting to the left. _Or maybe that's me..._

Sam could see Dean stiffen as soon as he spoke. Dean glanced up, pushed Sam until he was sitting up straight again, then started working on the other boot. Sam narrowed his eyes, trying to remember. Something wasn't right. Dean looked upset. Why couldn't they go to….

"Bobby?" Sam asked, not wanting an answer. Because he remembered something he wished he hadn't.

Dean looked up with haunted eyes that were begging Sam to _let it go. Please don't ask_ …

"Dean? Bobby...he's...is he..." Sam floundered, already seeing his answer in Dean's gaze. For a minute, the room fell silent. Nodding slowly as memories fell into place, Sam sighed heavily and said, "It was real then. I wasn't sure."

He didn't get a verbal response from his brother. Dean just stood up, yanked the jacket off the bed and quickly, but carefully, helped Sam into it. Sam gritted his teeth against the pain the simple act of putting on a coat caused him. Once it was on, Dean was pulling on him and Sam couldn't handle that.

"Stop." He rasped, overwhelmed, trying to pull away. "Wait. I...I need to lay down."

"No. You just got up." Dean said, pulling his arm over his shoulder. "It is time to go. You can sleep in the car and then we're gonna find a nice place to stay? Deal? Let's go."

Sam didn't have time to formulate a reply because Dean was hauling him up and everything was going dark again. _How is it possible to feel this sick?_ He wondered, trying to figure out if his eyes were closed or if the sun had just gone out. Either way, he was being dragged forward on wobbly legs. Dean was talking to him, but he couldn't hear him over the buzzing in his head.

"Please…" He whispered, hurting so badly he could feel the tears running down his face again, "Slow…"

"At this rate, it will take us a year to get to the car." Dean said gruffly, not slowing.

"The floor…"

"What about the floor?"

"Moving."

"No, it's not." Dean said, wrapping his arm more securely around Sam's back as he began slumping toward the floor. "And neither are you. Which we need to work on because we should be at the car already. Come on."

"I can't do this…" He really couldn't. Something bad was going to happen. His head was going to explode or he was going to shake into a million pieces or he was going to throw up.

Dean just kept pulling on him, but he wasn't being rough. Every movement was hurried, but cautious and Sam could do nothing to resist. Brightness flashed and he guessed that they were outside now, although he had his eyes tightly closed so he couldn't be sure of anything. He dropped his head to his chest, unspeakably lightheaded.

"Almost there, Sammy." Dean said, sounding a bit winded. "Doin' great."

Sam groaned and threw up all the water he'd just drank.

Dean cursed, but didn't stop moving. One more stumbling step forward and he was leaning against a car. He heard Dean yanking the door open, and then he was collapsing onto the seat, hunching over, his head was gently pushed down until he was retching and gagging; eyes seeing nothing but his boots and the pavement.

"I'm sorry." Dean's whisper was almost inaudible, his hand resting on Sam's shoulder.

Sam spit on the pavement, lifted his head a bit and squinted up at Dean. He muttered, "You suck."

Dean's contrite expression flickered and he smiled ever so slightly and said, "That's the spirit. Ready to go?"

"Hate you."

"I've heard that line before." Dean said, pushing and shoving him until he was all the way in the car.

Sam glared at him and asked, "Were you being serious?"

"Bout what?" Dean asked, hand on the door, ready to close it on any further conversation.

"Did you screw with my computer?"

Dean grinned, "Would it make you feel better if I said no?"

* * *

 **What'd ya think? :) Chapter 5 is in the works, folks!**


	5. Ch5 When You're Low

**Hi! Thank you all for brightening my week with your wonderful, kind reviews! I know many of you have mentioned wanting to see the Penders swoop onto the scene. I assure you they are coming. They are actually already in town lol...but things have to get a bit worse before they can get better... just sayin'. ;)**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 5: When You're Low**_

As soon as he closed the car door, Dean's amusement faded. He hated being forced to drag Sam out of bed when he clearly wasn't up for anything, but at least they were going to be back on the road and he could find them a better place to hole up for a few days.

 _Somewhere a whole lot farther away from that damned hospital…_

He made his way slowly around the front of the car, pressing a hand to his stomach. The coffee and beef jerky were not settling very well and he felt as nauseated as Sam looked. He really needed to find some food in the near future.

Swallowing hard, he pushed the burning in his gut to the back of his mind and climbed behind the wheel. Glancing to the right, he saw Sam's eyes were closed and he asked, "Still with me?"

"Still here." Sam mumbled, through gritted teeth. His arms were wrapped protectively around his chest as he slouched against the door.

Dean started the car and held his breath when the engine failed to start initially. After a tense few seconds, the junker started up and he started breathing again. Pulling out onto the road, Dean said, "Hang in there. Gonna find a nice comfy bed for you to crash in. Get you some Tylenol. Let you sleep. You'll be fine."

"You think it's gonna be that easy?" Sam asked, eyes still closed. His teeth were chattering and Dean flipped the heat on full blast when he caught sight of the endless shivering.

"I don't think anything's gonna be easy," Dean answered, brief spurt of attempted optimism taking a major hit at Sam's sour mood. He accelerated as they reached the end of the town limits and said, "Doesn't mean we're not gonna get through like we get through everything else."

He saw Sam nod out of the corner of his eye, but there was no further comment. Right hand gripping the wheel, Dean clenched his left hand into a fist against his knee, his thoughts spinning away from him. He still felt jittery from the coffee, and thinking about everything that had just happened did _nothing_ to calm his nerves. Waking Sam up had been an exercise in torture.

For both of them.

He'd nearly panicked when Sam woke up acting like he was still trapped in the hallucinations. Getting him calmed down and reoriented had not been easy. For several terrifying minutes, Dean thought he'd actually lost him for good this time.

It still scared him, thinking back to the way he'd had to helplessly watch Sam struggle to come to terms with the reality of the situation. The fearful way he'd asked if Dean were real. Dean's fingers cramped on the steering wheel and he shook his head to try to erase the image of his brother, half out of his head, struggling weakly against him. Things were supposed to be getting better by now.

"This...doesn't feel…" Sam's soft voice broke into his thoughts. "It feels….something feels wrong."

Heart climbing back into his throat, Dean automatically slowed the car a bit as he stared at Sam. "What are you talking about?"

Sam tilted his head and, if it were even possible, he looked worse than five minutes ago. The darkness under his eyes accentuated how deathly ill he looked. Dean had to turn back to face the windshield again because he couldn't concentrate on the road if he was also staring at Sam, trying to convince himself that he wasn't dying in front of his eyes.

After a long, tense minute, Sam whispered, "I feel...really sick."

"Yeah. Well you are. You've got a fever." Dean said immediately; eager to bypass where this conversation seemed to be heading.

He rubbed at his chest, carefully not looking at Sam. The dread he'd felt building from the moment Sam had first disappeared and he'd found out he'd been hit by a car and hospitalized, seemed to have taken up permanent residence as a dull throb in his chest. He needed to brush it off. Needed to focus on their next move. He needed to concentrate.

He needed Sam to be fine.

When Sam didn't respond, Dean tried again to encourage a healthy dose of avoidance, "Of course you feel like crap."

"It's more than that." Sam said, shaking his head slightly. "It feels like…"

Dean swallowed hard, that dull ache blossoming into a sharp bolt of fear that took his breath away. Voice oddly unsteady, this time he looked at Sam as he asked, "Like what?"

"Like before." Sam's voice went even softer as he said, "Like...the withdrawal."

And just like that, Dean's hands nearly snapped the steering wheel in pieces. His tension escalated until he had trouble seeing the road ahead. That was _not_ what he had expected to hear. Not at all. _The demon blood withdrawal was years ago_ , he told himself. _This makes no sense. Why would it be withdrawal?_

 _He just needs sleep,_ Dean's racing mind honed in on that thought. _That's the only thing wrong with him._ _Lack of sleep_. Dean shook his clenched hand out, trying to restore feeling to his cramped, numb fingers, ready to set Sam straight and change the direction of this conversation. But, of course, Sam had to go and make everything so much worse.

"They gave me pills, Dean." Sam whispered it like he was admitting a deep, dark shameful secret.

His eyes caught Dean's ever so briefly and Dean could see the horror and embarrassment in them before Sam looked away. For a long moment, Dean was speechless. Mouth dry, heart pounding, he tried his best to rationalize it all away.

"You think you're withdrawing from the meds?" Dean forced himself to ignore the guilt Sam was obviously feeling and shook his head, "You weren't there very long…"

"Doesn't take long." Sam said, voice paper thin. "It was a lot of pills."

"Hospital?" Dean asked, completely abandoning his avoidance plan He did not like the thought of what 'a lot of pills' might mean. Because if Sam was mentioning it, it was probably something he should pay attention to.

As much as he wanted to believe all Sam needed was a long nap, Dean knew it was time to admit this could be a whole lot more serious than he had at first thought. _What did they do to you, Sammy?_ His heartbeat pulsed like a drum in his temples and he had trouble focusing on the road ahead.

"No hospital." Sam said after a long silence.

"Sam…"

"Just get a room, ok? Let me sleep it off."

Sam's resigned voice faded out at the end and Dean saw his eyes slip closed again. Dean wanted to punch something. _Lucifer. Cas. Dick Roman. Any of them would do,_ he thought, glaring at the road ahead.

* * *

They had to find a place to stop.

Barely on the road for an hour, Dean couldn't do it. Couldn't make Sam sit there any longer. He'd hoped that Sam would fall asleep once they hit the road, but he hadn't. Instead, he was shaking with chills, burning with fever and in so much pain that inadvertent tears ran down his cheeks every few miles, as much as he tried to hide it. Didn't matter that they were still far too close to the place they'd left Cas. None of it mattered now. Because Sam needed to be flat on his back and not moving for a couple days at least.

He needed to stop for Sam's sake and he needed to stop for _his_ sake. He needed a drink and he needed to eat. He'd briefly considered hitting a drive through but when he'd mentioned it, Sam had gone a very disturbing shade of green. So Dean just kept driving.

Signs had been appearing for a few miles advertising for a coming town. Cedrina, Indiana, seemed to be some sort of a tourist town on a lake. Not exactly what he was looking for, but it was going to have to do. They had to stop. So he slowed down and turned where a flashy sign indicated another mile would lead him to the best kept secret of Cedrina.

If it was on a billboard larger than the car, Dean doubted it could be a very well-kept secret.

Reading the signs as they blurred past, Dean had two things on his mind. Decent, out of the way place to stay, and good delivery food. Looked like there were plenty of options for food but he really needed to get a room first. Stealing another quick glance at Sam, he decided the next sign he saw, whatever it was, would be it. He wouldn't turn his nose up at even a frilly overpriced bed and breakfast.

They were on the fringe of town, but they were going no further. An ugly, weathered sign advertising "Cooper's Cabins" pointed him off the main road and he took the turn off without hesitation once he saw the word 'vacancy' was lit up. The road turned into a scenic drive that he might actually have enjoyed if it weren't for the fact that he was about ready to snap from the tension.

After far longer than he had any patience to wait, he saw another sign and turned down a narrow side road, bumping down the dirt road toward what looked like a small ranch style house with a few parking spaces in front of a rickety sign saying 'Office Open.' Pulling up in front, Dean put the car in park and turned to his brother.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Sit tight. I'll be right back," Dean said even though he was under no illusion that Sam was going to be doing anything _but_ sitting tight unless forced to do something else. He lay so crumpled against the door that opening it without a warning would send him straight to the pavement. Dean waited for a response, didn't get one and figured that was his answer.

Opening his door as quietly as he could, Dean got out, feeling stiff and achy and more than a little hungry. _Get a room, find best delivery in town_ , he told himself, pulling the door to the office open with more force than necessary. An older guy with a bushy beard looked up from behind the counter. Raised an eyebrow.

"I need a room." Dean said, not in the mood for any small talk.

"Figured." The guy nodded, stepping to his computer. "Got two cabins left." He pointed to a map on the counter. "Here and here."

One cabin was directly behind the office and the other was at the far end of the property, off on its own near the treeline. Dean pointed at that one.

The guy shrugged, "Cabins only got the one bed." He said, looking beyond Dean back to the car. He added, "Pullout couch though."

"That's fine."

"You sure you don't want a motel? Some good ones up the…"

"No." Dean said, rubbing a hand against his chest where the burning worry and tension always seemed to center. He took a breath and said, "The cabin's fine. My brother's sick. He just needs to get out of the car and lay down."

"Okie dokie." The manager shrugged, "Just sayin'. Don't have a lot of amenities here." He punched at the computer keyboard, "Thought you'd be more comfortable in a place with room service. You don't look too good yourself."

Dean pulled out his wallet and said, "Long week. Anybody deliver around here?"

The guy kept typing at the computer with his right hand and fumbled under the counter with his left. His hand came back with a packet of delivery menus. Eyes still on the screen, he said, "Here ya go. Pizza, Chinese, subs, burgers. Cedrina's got lots of good eats and thankfully, we're not so out of the way here that we don't get delivery.

"Great. Thanks." Dean said, pocketing the menus.

"Sure." He looked up at Dean from the computer and said, "One night or two?"

"Can we do two and then see if we need another?" Dean asked, stomach uneasy at the thought that he didn't know if he had enough money for two nights let alone anything more than that.

The manager shook his head, "Sorry. Cabins are all booked up for the weekend. Two nights is all I've got."

Dean closed his eyes and put a hand against the counter. He just could not win. Last thing he wanted was to have to make Sam move again before he felt better. And by now, Dean was pretty sure he wasn't going to be feeling better in 48 hours.

"You alright?"

"Yeah." Dean said, hand still against the counter as he fought against the lightheadedness. He debated driving on and finding another place to stay but changed his mind right away. This would have to do. He wasn't sure he could make it any further. So he handed the guy a credit card and said, "Ok. Two nights."

"That I can do." He took Dean's card and said, "There's an urgent care center not far from here." Dean narrowed his eyes and the guy nodded back out to the car, "If your brother needs to be seen. He got the flu?"

Dean didn't want to look, dread building in his chest again. But he glanced out to the car and, sure enough, the door was open and he could see Sam's boots under the open door. He couldn't see anything else which meant he was folded over, probably throwing up again. Dean sighed, turned back to the manager and nodded.

"Urgent care. Seven miles." The manager said, handing Dean the credit card back along with the receipt, the key, and a handwritten note with the address and phone number of the urgent care center. "Check-out's at noon. Enjoy your stay."

"Thanks." Dean muttered, already halfway back out the door. He headed straight for the passenger side and found Sam sitting on the ground, leaning up against the open door. His right hand was pressed against the ground, legs sprawled out in front of him. Crouching next to him, Dean asked, "What're you doing?"

"What's it look like?" Sam snapped, although his voice was so soft Dean almost missed it.

"Looks like you're sittin' on your ass in the dirt. What I'm trying to figure out is why." Dean said, trying to keep his tone even.

Last thing he'd expected had been for Sam to snap at him. Just looking at him, though, Dean could tell he was in pain. He didn't want to aggravate anything, but he wanted to get his brother off the pavement and into a bed. When Sam didn't answer, Dean tried again, "Got us a room..."

"Good for you."

Dean's eyebrows rose at the heat in those words. He wasn't sure what to try next. For a minute, he remained silent. He wanted to rush Sam, wanted to boss him, wanted him to still be sitting in the car, not on the ground. But he couldn't rush him, because it was beyond obvious that Sam was rapidly approaching his crashing point.

After another long minute, Dean tried again, "Sam?"

Sam didn't move, but mumbled, "Heads killing me."

The momentary flash of anger from a few seconds ago seemed to have faded out. The tension in Sam's posture had not. Dean said quietly, "I know. We can work on that. But not here. How about we get you off the ground?"

"Everything's moving." Sam whispered.

"No it's not." Dean said, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder. They really needed to do something about the dizziness. He asked, "That why you got out of the car?"

"Need it to stop."

"I'll go get some Dramamine, ok? Let's get you into bed, then I'll go get some. That'll help." Dean said with confidence he didn't feel.

Sam tilted his head slightly until Dean could see his bloodshot eyes. He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, "I'm so tired, man."

Feeling the pain and exhaustion radiating off his brother, Dean nodded and said, "Then let's get going. What do you say?"

He waited. And waited. And waited.

Dean sighed, lowering his head and rubbing his eyes. He wanted to be sitting back in a comfy chair, eating a pizza and drinking a beer, following that up with a long evening spent with a soundly sleeping brother and an entire bottle of Jack. Looking back up at Sam, Dean decided two bottles might be even better.

"Sam?" He prompted again.

"Yeah?"

"You ready?" Dean asked, offering a hand.

"No." Sam said with a forced smile, lifting his head a bit. He grabbed a hold of Dean's arm.

Dean shifted and said, "Let me do the hard work. You just work on not puking on me."

"Nothin' left," Sam muttered as Dean pulled him up. "But 'm thirsty."

"Got that covered too once we get you to the cabin." Dean said, easing him back into the seat. He watched in concern as Sam's eyes glazed over and he started to go limp. Giving him a shake, Dean said, "You hear that? We got a cabin, dude. Like George Washington."

"Lincoln."

"Even half passed out, you're a complete geek." Dean said, watching Sam's eyes roll back yet again. "Sam? Stay with me man, short trip then you can lay down."

But Sam seemed to think that _right freakin' now_ was a good time to lay down and Dean felt the strain in his back as he fought to hold Sam upright as he slumped down in the seat until he was almost flat. Cursing the bad positioning and what was sure to be a sore back in the morning, Dean gripped Sam's shoulders and pulled him back to a sitting position. Sam's eyes fluttered, but didn't open and Dean figured that was the best he was going to get at this point. At least he wasn't lying sprawled across the seat.

Dean closed the door and straightened, taking a steadying breath as his back and stomach both protested his movement. He hurried around the car despite the pain. Starting the car with another quick glance at Sam, Dean gritted his teeth and told himself that he was just sleeping; but he'd seen the way Sam's eyes had rolled back in his head and he knew better. Jaw tightening, Dean bumped the ugly car down the gravel driveway toward the last cabin on the property.

He saw a few people out and about as he drove. A few kids, a young couple getting their mountain bikes down from a car rack, and an older guy settled back in a lounge chair with a thick book. Dean sighed, his jaw relaxing only a fraction as he tried to imagine what it would be like to simply be on a vacation on a lake with his brother.

It made his head hurt worse.

By the time he'd found the correct cabin, Dean was feeling like he could easily join his brother in unconsciousness in a very short time. His stomach was unsettled and he had renewed sympathy for Sam and his never ending battle with dizziness. Because he was feeling extremely lightheaded himself. His hands were shaking as he put the car in park.

Looking over at Sam, Dean shook his head and got out of the car. Might as well unload their gear without disturbing the sleeping giant. Opening the trunk, he grabbed everything at once, deciding a backache was worth not having to make any more trips than was absolutely necessary.

Stumbling up the front steps, Dean unlocked the door and hurried inside. Dropping their gear to the left of the door, he took a cursory glance around. About the same size as most motel rooms, the cabin had one bed, a couch, small kitchenette and table and chairs. Not much else. But it was tidy, if old. Pulling the blankets back on the bed, Dean crossed the room and pulled all of the blinds closed. The cabin wasn't completely dark, but it helped ease his headache a little.

Pausing at the door, Dean leaned against the frame and let his eyes close. Just for a moment. Just for a few breaths. He needed to prepare himself for what was to come. Needing a few more minutes, but not wanting to leave Sam waiting any longer, he straightened and headed down the steps. He got to the car and saw that Sam hadn't moved.

At least he was still sitting where he'd left him. It was going to be enough of a challenge to get him out of the car, let alone if he had to drag him off the ground again. Opening the car door, Dean was surprised and relieved when Sam turned his head to look at him.

"Hey." Dean said, leaning down.

Sam met his eyes and asked, "Are we there yet?"

Dean smiled, thankful for Sam's attempt at humor and the small smile that had accompanied his question. Dean nodded, "Yeah. We're here. Wanna lay down?"

"You have no idea." Sam replied, looking as bad as he sounded. He made no move, though.

Dean pushed the door open all the way and asked, "Whatcha waiting for? A piggyback ride?"

Sam laughed weakly and said, "Thought you said I was too heavy."

"You remember that, huh?" Dean asked, leaning in and offering Sam a hand. "Come on, you're making me tired just watching you sit there."

Sam nodded and grabbed Dean's arm, dragging himself forward until his feet hit the ground. Dean put a hand against Sam's shoulder when it seemed that Sam intended to get to his feet immediately. Sam frowned up at him and Dean said, "Hold still for a minute. You're gonna go straight to the dirt if you move now."

"Need to lay down."

"I know. But you gotta take it slow or you're gonna be laying on the ground." Dean said, crouching in front of him.

Sam lowered his head, hands braced on the seat. He asked, "Where are we?"

"Cedrina, Indiana."

"Where?" Sam frowned up at him.

Dean smiled again, "Hey, if you've never heard of it, don't expect me to know. I was just looking for a place to hole up. Wasn't being picky."

Sam huffed a laugh and forced his head up a little. He squinted, looking past Dean, and asked, "You couldn't find anything with a pool?"

"Cuz you love swimming so much." Dean rolled his eyes, pulling Sam forward another inch and putting a hand behind Sam's head to make sure he didn't smack it on the car as he stood up.

Sam groaned in complaint, but got to his feet without passing out. Dean held him steady, his free hand moving to gently lift Sam's head a bit to see if his eyes were even open. They were, but barely. And touching his face was like touching a hot stove. Dean cursed under his breath as Sam leaned heavily against him.

Dean said, "Forget the pool. Maybe I should throw you in the lake. You're burning up."

Sam took an unsteady step forward and said, "Too cold to swim."

"You'd sink like a rock anyway," Dean said, helping him forward, an arm around his waist, "and trust me you are not cold."

Sam shivered harder, as if to prove Dean wrong. They reached the bottom of the steps and Sam stopped moving. Dean felt him sinking and grabbed him tighter. Sam groaned and Dean wanted to loosen his grip in deference to his broken rib, but he didn't dare. Because if he let go at all, Sam was going to be on the ground.

"Sorry," He apologized, "Don't drop yet, ok? Almost there."

"That's...a lot of...steps." Sam whispered breathlessly.

It was only three, but Dean didn't disagree at this point. Three steps looked too far to him too. He pulled Sam's arm over his shoulder and tried to ignore Sam's almost inaudible whimper of pain as he said, "Come on."

Sam didn't answer, but he did move his feet which was all Dean could have hoped for at this point. The stairs weren't insurmountable, but left them both breathless and Sam becoming ever heavier on Dean's shoulder. Reaching the doorway, he paused, leaning heavily against the door frame again while Sam leaned against him.

Sam whispered, "This sucks."

Dean snorted, "Yes. Yes, it does. Come on, almost there."

Another groan was Sam's response, but he started moving again. Dean was feeling the strain in his back by the time they neared the bed. He complained, "You are so heavy."

"Sorry," Sam whispered, but Dean knew he wasn't apologizing for being heavy. He was apologizing for the fact he couldn't stand up any longer.

Dean braced himself and managed to ease Sam down on the bed without either of them hitting the floor. Collapsing on the bed next to Sam, Dean kept an arm around Sam's shoulders until he was somewhat convinced that he wasn't going to fall over.

Once Sam seemed steady enough, Dean asked, "You ok to sit there for a minute?"

Sam planted his hands on the bed and nodded slowly. Standing up, Dean said, "Keep your eyes open and don't move."

He went back to the door, closed and locked it, then grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and the Tylenol. Nudging Sam's shoulder, Dean said, "You need to take a drink."

"I'm so thirsty." Sam said, looking up.

"Well, it's your lucky day." Dean said, opening the bottle.

Sam peeled one shaking hand off the bed in an attempt to take the bottle. Dean let him take it, but kept a hand on the bottle to steady it. He frowned, watching how much effort it took for Sam to simply take a drink. Dean caught the bottle when Sam finally lowered his hand. He tilted forward and Dean almost dropped the bottle in his haste to catch his brother. Fumbling to set the bottle on the side table, Dean refocused on Sam. Sitting back down, one arm wrapped around Sam's shoulders, he put his right hand against Sam's chest, gently easing him back upright.

Dean could feel his heart pounding way too fast under his hand. Every breath was quick and uneven. He was trembling and slumped heavily against Dean after a few seconds. At first he thought he'd lost consciousness, but he felt Sam's hand around his wrist and Dean relaxed just a little. He kept his hand pressed against Sam's chest, but let his left hand lift until he could rest it on the back of Sam's head. His hair was damp with sweat and Dean knew he needed to get him laying down and cooled off but before he could suggest anything, Sam spoke up.

"He told me you weren't coming back."

The hushed admission didn't really shock Dean. He knew the hallucinations of the devil had been screwing with Sam's head for months. Lies like that were par for the course. Gently thumping the back of Sam's head with his fist, Dean said, "Which of course you didn't believe for a minute."

The inadvertent shudder that ran through his brother was answer enough. Dean hated himself all over again for his abrupt departure from the hospital. He sighed, rubbing Sam's back as he said, "I'm sorry. I should have made sure you understood what was going on before I left."

"Where did you go?" Sam whispered, his fingers tightening around Dean's wrist. There was lingering hurt and confusion in his tone.

"I went to find help." Dean tried to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Find help?"

Dean frowned, looking down at Sam. He said, "I found Cas, Sam. Don't you remember?"

Sam shook his head and said softly, "I'm glad you came back."

A terrible thought crossed Dean's mind and, mouth dry, he asked, "You know you're not there anymore right?"

This time Sam lifted his head and wearily glanced around the room, then back at Dean. He looked utterly drained but offered a small smile as he said, "Now I do."

Dean snorted and said, "You are so screwed up, you know that?"

" _That_ I knew." Sam said, lowering his head to rest against Dean's shoulder again. He sighed heavily and said, "Need to lay down."

"So let's work on that," Dean said, more than ready to get him settled and comfortable. He started to move, but Sam was still hanging onto his wrist. "Sam?"

"I...keep forgetting things." Sam whispered, leaning even more heavily against him. His words slid together, "Wh's wrong w'me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you." Dean said firmly, rubbing his back again. "You just need to get some sleep and I'm going to fix everything. Ok?"

He felt Sam nodding against his shoulder.

Dean stared at the opposite wall and wondered how exactly he was going to fix anything.

* * *

 **hope you enjoyed! Chapter 6 is in progress... :)**


	6. Ch6 Man left to his own schemes

**Hi! Here you go! Thank you all for the lovely reviews! And special thanks to my guest reviewers! Always feel bad I can't send you a reply note, but know that I appreciate your words and feedback very much. :)**

 **Hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 6: Man Left to his own Schemes**_

Sam was almost asleep when a quiet voice roused him. Without opening his eyes, he asked, "What?"

"Doin' ok?" Dean's voice was soft, but hoarse. He sounded terrible and Sam wondered why.

Pondering that for a minute, Sam let the thought go because it hurt his head too much to try to remember what had happened and why Dean sounded off. Forcing his head up off of Dean's shoulder, he whispered, "Need t'lay down."

"I know." Dean said, shifting slightly. "Jacket off first."

"'m too c'ld." Sam muttered, hating that he couldn't seem to separate his words anymore.

Dean ignored his protest and said, "Jacket off. You're running a fever, remember?"

 _Too cold to have a fever,_ Sam thought as he was shifted from his comfortable, secure position against Dean's side. His head was heavy and his muscles ached, but he put up token resistance as Dean started to pull the jacket off. Dean ignored him and pulled his right arm out of the sleeve. The movement alone was enough to make him forget all about pride and resort to begging.

"Dean, stop. Please." Sam forced the words out clearly enough this time as he tried again to resist as Dean worked on the second sleeve. It was too much, the entire world was shaking and spinning. "Let me lay down, please."

"Hang on." Dean said, not stopping.

This time Sam didn't complain because he was too dizzy to speak. Squeezing his eyes closed and swallowing hard, he concentrated on not throwing up. The jacket came off and he almost sighed in relief, but then Dean was tugging his long sleeved shirt off too. _Didn't you hear me say I'm cold, you jerk?_ Sam thought in irritation as the air bit his exposed arms and sent another chill running through him. The second the shirt was off and Dean's hands let go of him for a heartbeat, Sam crumpled onto the pillow without any hesitation. _Screw you. I'm laying down now._

"Not in a hurry are you?" Dean sounded half amused and half annoyed.

Sam wanted to punch him.

But he couldn't do anything but lay there uncomfortable on his side, miserably shivering against the cold sheets. A second later, he felt Dean lift his legs up onto the bed and he was almost comfortable. _Just need the heat turned up and a pile of blankets..._

"Stay awake. I'm not done with you yet." He felt Dean pulling his boots off, followed by a thump against his knee. Dean said, "Need to check you over."

Not bothering to open his eyes or answer, Sam just waited. _Maybe if I ignore him he'll go away._ He heard a thud as his boots hit the floor, then Dean was pushing him gently onto his back. Even with his eyes closed the world turned inside out and upside down. Swallowing hard, Sam grasped the sheets and tried to keep the water he'd recently swallowed where it belonged.

As Dean sat down, the bed dipped and the motion almost threw Sam over the edge of his wavering control. Taking shallow breaths, Sam kept his eyes closed and barely avoided throwing up all over his brother. _Would serve him right,_ Sam thought irritably. Why Dean couldn't take a not so subtle hint and leave him the hell alone he didn't know. He felt Dean tugging up his t-shirt and he realized what Dean meant by checking him over. Sam tried to push him away, but Dean just swatted his hand aside.

"How're the ribs?" Dean asked, easing the shirt up.

Sam gritted his teeth against the pain, the cold and everything else and muttered, "Fine."

"Like hell." Dean said. His words were followed up with a low whistle and then a very soft, "Sorry," as gentle fingers ghosted across Sam's chest. Sam flinched and held his breath. After a second, he felt Dean pulling the t-shirt back down. A hand rested lightly on his chest and Dean said, "Got a nice collection of bruises there, dude. Just the one rib broken, right?"

"Don't know." Sam said, trying to breathe normally again, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his chest.

"Anything else hurt?" Dean asked. Sam glared at him and Dean raised his hands in surrender.

Sam sighed and said, "Can't even 'member wh'happened."

Dean's eyes were dull and his face unshaven, but he smiled like everything was just fine and said, "It's ok. Don't worry about it right now."

"When'm I supp'sed t'worry 'bout it?" Sam asked, tightening his grip on the sheets. Dean might think everything was ok, but Sam knew better. He had awful, blurry, dark gaps in his memory and felt like the world, and his mind, were spinning in a blender. He wanted answers not platitudes.

Dean pulled the covers up over him and said, "You don't have to worry about it. Ok? I got it under control."

Sam saw the conviction on Dean's face and settled against the pillow a bit more. _Man, was he tired!_ Bringing his hands up from under the covers, he pressed them both to his face and whispered, "M'head's gonna explode."

"It just feels like it." Dean said softly. He reached for something and added, "Tylenol. For the headache and the fever."

Sam left one hand over his eyes, his other hand grasping the covers over his chest into a tight ball as his stomach turned at the thought. He heard Dean shaking out a handful of pills, the rattle of the medication thundering in his head like a rockslide against his brain. For a minute, everything went quiet and Sam thought maybe Dean had decided to leave him alone.

"Sam, come on." Dean said, nudging him in the side very carefully. "You need to take some medicine or you're gonna feel like shit all day."

Lowering his hand, Sam didn't think a few painkillers were going to change that fact, but he knew his brother well enough to know Dean wasn't going to stop pestering him until he took the pills. If it would ease the pounding in his skull even a little, Sam decided it might actually be worth it. He looked at Dean and said, "Ok."

"Ok." Dean's smile was small, but the expression in his eyes screamed relief.

Sam almost smiled back, but needed to keep all his concentration on not throwing up. Dean helped him sit up enough to take the pills with a sip of water and Sam didn't fight him because he knew he'd never manage it on his own. The pills went down like lead and the water didn't settle any better. Tension running through his entire body, Sam felt Dean ease him back onto the pillow. He didn't know how long he lay there, fighting to quell the nausea and keep things where they belonged, but finally he was able to breathe a bit easier.

Teetering on the edge of an uncomfortable sleep, Sam turned his head against the pillow until he could see Dean. He was sitting there, staring down at the bottle of water like it held all the answers. He looked so intense, Sam wanted to ask what the bottle was telling him. But his head was foggy and his mouth refused to cooperate with him. He needed to ask Dean...well he needed to ask him a lot of stuff, actually. There were so many images flashing through his mind that he didn't have a hope of untangling them if Dean didn't help. As if sensing his thoughts, Dean turned his gaze away from the bottle.

"Go to sleep, Sam." Dean said quietly, staring at him with tired eyes.

It was all the prompting he needed.

* * *

 _Well, that was easy_ , Dean thought with mild amusement as Sam's eyes closed and the tension drained out of him. His uneven breathing settled as he drifted off to sleep. Rubbing his eyes, Dean set the bottle of water aside. He sat there for a long time, staring at the wall without seeing it. The sounds of kids shouting and laughing somewhere outside drew his attention back to the present. Rubbing his head again, Dean reached for the Tylenol. Palming a couple, he pulled Bobby's flask out of his coat pocket and downed the pills with a generous swallow. Helping himself to a second swig, he glanced at Sam, then rose and crossed the room to the little table.

Mentally, he started composing a list. They needed food, Dramamine and some ice packs probably. He didn't know how he was going to manage to get to a store, though. Sam was losing ground faster than Dean could keep up with. And he didn't want to admit it, but he wasn't far behind. Prioritizing, Dean decided, now that Sam was sleeping, he probably needed to deal himself before anything else.

Sitting down, he reached for the take-out menus and spread them across the table.

On one hand he was hungry enough to murder an extra large pizza. On the other hand, though, he felt a little sick to his stomach. _Probably because you had beef jerky for breakfast,_ Dean snorted, flipping through the menus. He finally settled on a sandwich shop that promised "Freaky Fast Delivery." Dialing the number, he kept his voice low as he ordered a couple sandwiches. He had a feeling Sam wasn't going to be interested in eating anything, but he was going to have something better than gas station crap to offer him if he did want to try. Hanging up the phone, Dean looked at their gear.

He should get organized. Should find the laptop and try to... _to do what?_ Find a case? Find out what new crisis was out there in the world waiting to bite them in the rear? Dean decided to leave the laptop where it was. Instead of doing anything productive or remotely important, he just sat there, head resting in his hands waiting for his freaky fast sandwich to arrive.

The background sounds were those of happy chatting, laughter and relaxation as people enjoyed their vacation beyond the walls of the cabin. Dean barely heard them. He wasn't hearing anything distinct. Wasn't thinking anything distinct. Mind blank, he felt tired enough that he could have fallen asleep right there, but he knew he couldn't. He just waited and it really wasn't that long of a wait at all before he heard a car pull up near the cabin. On his feet in a heartbeat, he was at the door a split second later, hand on his gun.

Heart pounding much too fast, Dean pulled the curtain back a bit and saw a teenage girl with long blonde braids and a shiny set of braces on her teeth. He slipped the gun back under his jacket. She was bouncing up the steps, a bag in her hand and he had the door open before she could knock. If she was surprised by him opening the door so quickly, she didn't show it. Stepping out onto the porch, he pulled the door closed behind him and, thankfully, had just enough cash to cover it and give the cheerful high-schooler a decent tip. She thanked him brightly and bounced off back to her crappy little car.

Dean wished he remembered what it was like to have that kind of energy.

That kind of optimism.

He locked the door behind him and dropped the bag on the table. Sam didn't seem to have stirred at all, so he sat back down and pulled out the sandwiches. Stomach growling at the smell of actual, legitimate, decent food, Dean unwrapped the first sandwich. It tasted amazing. With a contented sigh, Dean took another bite, then dug around for a bottle of beer. He finished his lunch, then moved to the couch. It wasn't the greatest couch in the world, but it was good enough. He hadn't even finished the bottle of beer before he fell asleep.

* * *

"Dean?"

He was comfortable, sleeping soundly and actually having a good dream. But he was instantly awake when he heard Sam's soft voice. Straightening, he almost spilled the bottle of beer all over himself. Dean rubbed at his eyes and shook his head to clear the fog. He put the bottle on the floor and pushed himself to his feet. Pain flared under his ribs, and he swayed for a second, rubbing at his chest. He caught a glimpse of the clock and realized his after lunch nap had been a lot longer than he'd planned. It was just after five in the evening.

"Dean?" Sam called again.

"Yeah?" He answered, hurrying over to the bed. Sam hadn't moved from where he'd been sleeping earlier, but he no longer looked comfortable. His eyes were closed, hands fisted in the bedding again, every muscle tight as he breathed very carefully. Dean stood next to the bed and said, "Right here. What's up?"

Sam took a shaky breath, then whispered, "Spinning."

Dean sighed, crouching down next to the bed. He kept his voice soft, "Nothing's spinning. You're dehydrated. That's why you're so dizzy. You gotta drink some more. And you should eat..."

"No." Sam cut him off, sounding almost panicked.

"Sam. Come on." Frustration bubbled up along with worry, but Dean kept his voice quiet. He said, "You gotta work with me here. It's either this or a…"

"Just make it stop."

Dean leaned an elbow on the bedside table and ran a hand through his hair. _Just make it stop_. Nothing complicated there at all. They'd become experts at side of the road medicine over the years, but he needed a little more cooperation if his doctoring was going to be successful. He said, "You wanna try some Dramamine?"

"I don't know."

Dean bit back any comment because he could see Sam was thinking about it. He remained silent and waited. Finally Sam said, "Worth a try I guess."

Grimacing, Dean said, "Too bad me _telling_ you nothing's spinning isn't enough to convince your screwed up head, eh?"

"Too bad." Sam muttered, still not opening his eyes or releasing his grip on the bedding. He asked, "We don't have any here do we?"

"No. I'm sorry, man." Dean wished he'd thought to grab some at the gas station. "I tried to think of everything."

"It's ok."

It wasn't, not really, but Dean didn't contradict him. He straightened and said, "Anything else you think you want? I'll grab some more Gatorade," he ignored the way Sam paled at the word, "and maybe an ice pack or something for your ribs. And some food. I've got crackers, but is there anything that sounds good to you?"

Sam's groan made it very clear that nothing sounded good. Dean let it go. He'd pick up some muffins or something because he'd be damned if he was going to let Sam starve to death after getting him back from the devil. Dean crossed the room and hunted through their gear until he found Sam's phone. Making sure it was on and had a charge, he went back to Sam's side and said, "Move over."

"What?" This time Sam opened his eyes for a split second that seemed to make him even dizzier. He asked, "Why?"

"Because, I'm gonna go find a store and I'd rather not have to pick you up off the floor when I get back." Dean said, leaning over him and rearranging pillows. Hating to do it, he pushed and shoved as gently as possible until Sam was a bit further from the edge of the bed.

Sam was glaring at him even with his eyes closed as he pressed one hand to his stomach, the other still cramping around the bedding. He said threateningly, "I throw up here and it's gonna be all over the sheets."

"Yeah, well I'd rather you throw up all over the sheets than fall out of bed and bash your head." Dean said, pushing the phone against Sam's chest. "You were hit by a car. You don't need to take another knock to the head. You're screwed up enough as it is."

"Your concern is overwhelming." Sam said, his hand moving from his stomach to grip the phone tightly.

Dean grinned and said, "What can I say? Awesome big brother. Besides, puke is easier to clean up out of sheets than it is out of carpet."

This time when Sam groaned, Dean almost didn't feel bad. Even so, he hesitated and asked, "You gonna be ok?"

"Yeah."

"Seriously, Sam."

"Seriously. Where am I gonna go?"

"Nowhere fast, that's for sure." Dean snorted. He didn't like the thought of leaving but he also didn't have much of a choice. He crossed the room again, retrieved Sam's gun and settled it on the bed next to him, right against his hand that was wrinkling up the blanket. He said, "Don't shoot me when I come back."

"I won't." Sam forced his eyes open and met Dean's gaze. He looked terrible, but he also looked 100% grounded in reality for once. "Just don't stop to pick up a bunch of women on your way back, ok? You take too long and I might shoot you on principle."

The worry wasn't gone, but it decreased a little at Sam's teasing tone. Dean smiled and said, "Hey, if she's hot, might be worth it."

Sam smiled briefly, then looked sick again as he said, "Hurry, ok?"

"I will." Dean promised, concern resurfacing. "Call me if you need anything."

He forced himself to walk to the door and lock it behind him without another glance at Sam. _He's fine. He's safe, got a weapon and his phone._ Jogging to the car, Dean glanced around the area. It was a nice, safe, friendly place full of smiling, happy people who meant them no harm. He got into the car, wondering if he would ever be able to believe _any_ place was nice or safe or friendly. He wondered if he would ever be able to believe there were smiling, happy people in the world who meant them no harm.

Starting the car up, Dean swallowed hard against the rising nausea.

Because he knew the answer to his own question.

He'd never be able to believe any of that again.

* * *

He'd stopped by the office to ask where the nearest drug store was located. The manager gave him a paper map and pointed out the easiest route to a small shopping center. Dean noticed with a bit of amusement that the guy had circled the location of the urgent care. Dean ignored that, though, and headed for the shopping center. Urgent care was being held in reserve. He'd give Sam twenty-four hours. That was it. If he wasn't eating and drinking and keeping it all down by then, Dean would drag him kicking and screaming and puking to the urgent care center if he had to.

The shopping center wasn't extremely busy when he arrived. Thankful for that, Dean parked as close to the door as he could. It had taken him just over ten minutes to get to the store and he intended to be in the store for less than five minutes. He glanced at his phone as he jogged up to the door. No calls. No texts. That was good, right? He told himself it was and stopped inside the door, looking around, orienting himself to the layout of the store.

The first thing he grabbed was a box of blueberry muffins. They didn't look half bad and they'd taste a heck of a lot better in the morning for breakfast than the jerky. Heading down an aisle, he reached for a larger bottle of Gatorade. The white kind. Nice and bland. Innocuous. At the end of the aisle, he dropped the purchases into a convenient basket and tried to decide which way to go next. His head was spinning as he tried to think through what else he should get. Reaching the pharmacy section, he grabbed a couple self-activating ice packs, then started looking for the Dramamine.

It took longer than he wanted and by the time he found the box, he was frustrated and anxious. He had a headache and still felt vaguely sick to his stomach. He checked his phone again and still no calls or texts. _Means he's sleeping_ , Dean told himself as he headed for the cash registers. He knew there was probably a lot of other stuff he should be buying, but he would worry about that another time. They just needed to get through the night. That was it. _Get him through the night, and tomorrow will be better_.

At least that's what he told himself as he paid for what little he'd grabbed.

By the time the clerk had rung him up, he was almost vibrating with tension. Checking his watch, he realized he'd been in the store much longer than he'd planned. The clerk wished him a good evening, but he didn't even reply. Rushing outside, Dean had the bags in one hand and his phone in the other. He was tempted to text Sam just to see how he was doing, but thought better of it. _If he's asleep, you'll just wake him up._ So he lowered his hand and hurried back toward the car. Halfway there, he heard a voice somewhere to the left.

A voice calling his name.

"Dean!"

He didn't stop walking. They weren't talking to him. Probably another guy named Dean. He pocketed the phone and pulled out his keys.

"Dean!"

The voice was closer and sounded friendly. Sounded _familiar,_ actually. He frowned and slowed down. Wracking his brain for a face to go with the voice, Dean was one second from pulling out his gun. Because these days, there was no one who wanted to talk to them who didn't also want to kill them.

Dean turned around and immediately forgot all about the gun. She was hurrying up to him, purse over her shoulder, a paper bag in her arms and a wide smile on her face. The hair was a bit greyer but otherwise not much seemed to have changed since the last time he'd seen her. He found himself smiling despite the hurry he was in.

"Arla." He said as she walked up to him.

"It _is_ you!" She beamed, all the spark and joy that he remembered from years ago still present in her eyes and demeanor. "I wasn't sure at first. But, then I looked again and I knew it was you. Dean! It's so good to see you!"

"Good to see you too." He said because he knew that was what he was supposed to say. Not that he _wasn't_ glad to see her. But the timing couldn't have been worse. He really needed to go, not spend time socializing. He owed her more than a quick dismissal, though, after everything she'd done for them.

Arla shook her head, "It's been, what? Six years or so?"

"About that." Dean said, realizing how fast time passed. _Six years? More like six lifetimes,_ he thought, trying to remember who he'd even been six years ago. _An idiot kid who thought he knew everything._

"How are you? What are you doing in town?" Arla put a hand on his arm, standing close and studying him with eyes that were every bit as perceptive as he remembered. She lowered her voice and said, "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to interrogate you."

"It's ok." He said even though it wasn't. He tried to keep smiling at her even though he wanted to shake her hand off and run.

"It's just so wonderful to see you after all these years!" She said, shaking her head. "I wasn't sure...I didn't know if we'd ever see you again. I can't believe we bumped into each other like this! What are you doing here in Indiana?"

He struggled to come up with an answer. _Just a quick pit stop running from demons, Leviathans and the devil,_ didn't seem like the best answer to offer her. Neither did, _oh you know, relaxing by the lake,_ _trying to put my brother back together._ Her expression changed from happiness to deep concern as she stared at him, still waiting for an answer. He said quickly, "Just passing through. What about you?"

"Vacation." She smiled, giving his arm a quick squeeze before backing off just a little, as if sensing his hesitation. Arla said, "My family has a place up on the lake. We all take turns with it and this month Tommy and I are using it. I'm just headed up there now actually."

"How's Tommy?" Dean asked, relaxing a little. It had been years since he'd thought of the Penders and, as much as he needed to be on his way, he genuinely was glad to see her and hear they were doing well.

Arla's eyes twinkled as she said, "Tommy's good. Coming up later this week. He'd love to see you, Dean, and I'd love for you to stop by if you had time? Dinner sometime?"

Dean shook his head immediately. He hated to turn her down, but there was no way he was involving her and Tommy in their life again. Bad enough what they'd gone through all those years ago. No way was he taking a chance of tangling them up in their disastrous life now. He kept smiling, though, trying to be polite, "Thanks. Sounds good, but we probably won't be here that long. On the move, you know."

She nodded and he knew she understood because she knew more about their lives than most people did. Her expression grew concerned and she said, "How are you, though? Is there anything we can do?"

"No. Doing good, thanks." Dean lied, inching away.

"And Sam?" Arla asked, looking around, "Is he with you?"

"He's good." Dean lied again, "He's around. Keeping busy, you know?"

Arla nodded and Dean had no doubt in his mind that she knew he was lying to her and he absolutely hated himself for doing it. But what was the alternative? Tell her the truth? That wasn't going to happen. They'd relied on her once, and he didn't regret it, but there was no way he was bringing her into their mess again. Last time they'd both been sick. Last time they'd literally had no choice. But this time he wasn't sick. He had it under control and there was no way he was going to try to explain to her what had happened to Sam. Even though he knew she'd be more than willing to help them, he just couldn't. Couldn't even consider it. Not after everything Sam had just gone through. He couldn't subject Sam to prying eyes, even if he did like Arla. Sam didn't need anyone seeing him right now. His mind was fractured and Dean wasn't going to put him through that. So he lied.

"Well, it's...it's great to see you." Dean said, forcing a smile, "You look great. Tell Tommy hi for us."

"I will." Arla nodded, she looked sad, but didn't push.

Dean walked to the car and opened the door. He was about to get in when he heard her voice again. Turning, he watched as she put her grocery bag down on the hood of a car and tugged out a notebook from her purse. She scribbled into the notebook and said, "Here. Take this with you, ok? Just take this with you. Our home number in Arizona is still the same, but this is my cell phone and that's the address of our place on the lake here."

She ripped off a sheet of paper and pressed it into his hand. Squeezing his arm, she leaned closer and said, "Promise me, Dean Winchester. Promise me right now that you will let us know if there's anything we can do to help you boys."

He shoved the paper in his pocket and nodded, heart in his throat. He said hoarsely, "I will."

Arla nodded, stepping back. Dean could see tears in her eyes and he hated himself even more. He wished he'd picked a different time to go shopping. A different store. A different town. He wished he'd never run into her.

Dean got in the car and drove away.

* * *

He opened the door as quietly as possible. Closing it behind him, he squinted in the darkness and was able to see that Sam hadn't moved. From what he could tell, he was sound asleep. Setting the bag down on one of the chairs, Dean walked to the side of the bed and asked softly, "Sam?"

Sam didn't respond. He looked much more comfortable than he had earlier when Dean had left. So Dean left him alone and unpacked the bag. Midway through, he was struck with a jolt of pain that left him gasping and nauseated. He rubbed at his chest and some of the pain died down a bit, but he knew he was going to be sick. Rushing to the bathroom, Dean had the presence of mind to carefully close the door behind him as he sprawled to his knees in front of the toilet and upchucked his freaky fast sandwich.

Groaning, Dean, threw up until he saw stars and had nothing left in his stomach. Resting his head on his forearms, Dean tried to breathe through the waves of nausea that still swept over him every few seconds. _Crap, I don't have time for the flu_ , he thought, feeling miserable and weak. Maybe it wasn't the flu. Maybe it was just a bad sandwich. _Maybe it's just the stress,_ Dean decided after a few minutes. He didn't exactly feel feverish or achy. _It's probably the stress_. It wasn't like he hadn't been under a crap load of stress lately. When he felt a little less shaky, he pushed himself away from the toilet and leaned back against the wall, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

 _That sucked,_ he thought, head pounding.

For a few minutes he sat there, trying to make sure he wasn't going to hurl again. He probably would have taken a little more time to regroup, but his phone vibrated. Glancing at it, he smiled a bit when he saw that it was a text. From Sam. Apparently he hadn't noticed Dean was back yet.

The text was short and nothing but a bunch of gibberish. Dean wasn't exactly surprised given how Sam had barely been able to keep his eyes open earlier. _Probably can't even see to type._ It was just impressive that he'd managed to text the right person. Dean didn't bother replying, he just dragged himself to his feet. Rinsing out his mouth at the sink, Dean wiped a hand across his mouth, then stepped back out into the other room. He headed for the bed and said, "I'm here, Sam. You fell asleep."

"When did you get back?" Sam whispered, opening his eyes briefly.

"A few minutes ago." Dean said, taking the gun off the bed and setting it on the side table. Sam still had the phone grasped in his hand. Dean pulled it from his fingers, setting it on the table and asked, "How're you feeling? Any better than earlier?"

"Where did you go?"

Dean tried not to let Sam's question bother him. Trying to be patient, he said, "I went to get Dramamine, remember?"

Sam stared at him for a long time, then finally said, "Yeah."

"Ok good." Dean went to the table and grabbed the box. Opening it up, he walked back over and reached for the bottle of water. Carefully sitting down without jarring Sam too much, Dean said, "Here, let's see if this helps."

Groaning, Sam twitched like he was trying to move. Dean took what he could get and lifted his head, shoving another pillow under it. Quickly realizing that was as far as Sam was going to make it, Dean didn't push the matter. Sam had gone another shade paler with the slight increase in elevation. He looked like he was clinging to consciousness with everything he had left, which wasn't much. He did reach for the pill with a shaking hand, though. Sam put it in his mouth and reached for the bottle of water; taking the smallest sip of water possible to wash it down. Dean wanted to press him to drink more, but didn't dare.

"Lemme lay down." Sam whispered, eyes closed again as he let go of the bottle of water.

"You are laying down," Dean said, setting the water aside. He gently pulled the second pillow out from under Sam's head, feeling the fever as he settled Sam against the single pillow.

Sam felt even warmer than he had earlier and Dean watched with concern as his brother started pushing at the blanket like he was too hot. Checking the clock, he knew it had been long enough that Sam could have more Tylenol. But would that be enough? The nagging thought that he really had no idea what was wrong with Sam had his stomach turning again. Was it just the dehydration? Or did he have an infection? An infection that needed antibiotics? Antibiotics that he didn't have.

"Sam." Dean said after a minute of silence. Sam opened his eyes but didn't speak. Dean took a slow breath, then asked, "Do we need a hospital?"

"I don't know."

Dean's heart sank at the admission then a red hot spike of anger flared and he couldn't sit there feeling completely useless for even one more second. He stood up quickly and crossed to the bathroom. This was not supposed to be happening. Sam was supposed to get a lot of sleep and then be fine. Dean's hands shook as he got a washcloth wet with cold water. He thought about what Sam had said about the pills and withdrawal and knew he needed to seriously consider what that could actually mean. Because Sam didn't seem to be getting better.

He glanced at the mirror and the face that stared back didn't even look familiar anymore. Slamming his free hand down on the faucet, he turned it off with a thud, then twisted the excess water out the washcloth.

Walking back into the other room, he saw that Sam had rolled over onto his side, both hands pressed against his face. Dean sighed and nudged Sam's hands aside. Sam flinched and Dean said, "Easy."

He pressed the washcloth to Sam's face; pale despite the flush of the fever.

After a minute, Sam asked, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean wanted to put a fist through a wall. _Or Cas' face_. Instead, he took a deep breath, then sighed and said, "Don't do that. Don't say you're sorry, ok? I don't wanna hear it. You don't have anything to be sorry for right now, you hear me?"

Sam didn't respond. Dean pushed the washcloth back a bit until he could see Sam's eyes. Sam blinked drowsily, but met his gaze. Dean said, "I know you want to sleep, but you gotta be straight with me, man. Do we need a hospital?"

"I don't know." Sam said after a few seconds.

"The fact that you keep saying that makes me think maybe we should be finding one," Dean said, rubbing his eyes as if it would help rub away the ever-increasing headache.

"Not going to a hospital." Sam shook his head slightly and the washcloth fell onto the bed.

"You are if you don't take some Tylenol and start drinking and eating," Dean said, leaving no room for argument. He settled the washcloth against the back of Sam's neck. "I will throw your butt back in the car and push you out in front of the nearest ER."

Sam just closed his eyes with a shaky sigh. Nudging him in the shoulder, Dean said, "Do not fall asleep yet."

He got a weak glare this time, but Dean didn't care. Sam's eyes were still open and that was what mattered. He held the bottle in front of Sam's eyes and said, "You need to drink some more and take some Tylenol."

Sam nodded but didn't even lift a hand to take the bottle this time. Nausea building in his gut at his brothers listless resignation, Dean put a hand behind his head, lifting him as little as possible, and managed to give him a drink without spilling any of it. Pulling the bottle back, Dean said, "Tylenol next. Then you can sleep."

Swallowing like it hurt, Sam said, "No more pills."

"Sam." Dean shook his head, frustration escalating with his blood pressure. "This is non-negotiable. You take the Tylenol, stop throwing everything up and that fever needs to go down or we're going to a hospital."

"Tylenol's not gonna help." Sam whispered, misery and pain evident in his eyes.

"And you aren't helping your case by saying shit like that," Dean practically shouted, at the end of his rope. He regretted his words and his volume, though, when Sam's eyes closed in a way that looked final. Heart jumping into his throat, Dean shook Sam's shoulder.

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam asked, not opening his eyes although his voice rose a pinch above a whisper. He pressed a hand to his head again. "Will you just back off?"

Dean's gut reaction was _(again)_ to punch something or just get up and go find a bar. He even started to move, only to find his wrist caught in an iron grasp. Sitting back down, he met Sam's gaze and snapped, "What?"

Sam held on tight as he whispered, "Where're you going?"

The anger snuffed out like a candle in a breeze and left Dean feeling exhausted. He said, "Not goin' anywhere."

After a few seconds, Sam let go of his wrist and admitted, "I don't even remember if you're really here or not."

Dean's headache doubled. He didn't know how to fix this. And he needed to fix _something_. He lowered his voice and held Sam's gaze as he said, "I'm really here. Really here and really trying to get you to take some Tylenol so we can both get some sleep tonight."

A minute passed as he waited to see if Sam could process any of that.

"I can't remember what happened." Sam said, eyes staring blankly into the distance.

"I know." Dean nodded, "And I know you're frustrated. Right now you just need to take some medicine and..."

"They gave me pills...kept making me take pills…" Sam interrupted as if he hadn't heard a word Dean had said. His eyes were still open, but glazed and a million miles away. "I still couldn't sleep." His eyes widened and he shuddered, "He kept telling me that I should just die and I can't remember why I didn't!"

A chill swept over Dean at Sam's words. _Too close!_ It had been far too close. If he hadn't found Cas, if they hadn't made it back in time...the thought terrified him to his very core. He kept his voice soft, though, when he said, "The reason you didn't die, Sam? Because you're stronger than that. You were stronger than them. Stronger than the devil."

Sam was trembling again and Dean knew it was fear, not the fever, this time. He said, "You gotta listen to me and stop thinking about all of that."

"Trying." Sam said, "Everything...it's all…it's hard to tell what's going on."

"I know. It'll get better. You just need some sleep. We both do." Dean forced a smile and said, "So take the damn Tylenol will ya?"

He'd hoped for a return smile. For a bit less tension at least. Sam just kept staring at him like he _still_ wasn't convinced Dean was really there. After a long minute, Sam finally asked in a small voice, "It's just Tylenol?"

It hurt to hear the suspicion and fear in Sam's voice. It hurt _and_ scared him. Things had gone downhill much faster than he'd expected. Sam had seemed better earlier. Tired, but coherent. But this was not good at all. Dean forced himself to stay calm and do what he could to reassure his brother that he wasn't a figment of his imagination. That he wasn't trying to poison him. He said, "Sammy, it's Tylenol. That's it. I swear."

Sam nodded.

"Tell me you believe me." Dean urged, sensing the doubt. He felt desperate as he said, "Tell me you know I'm real, Sam!"

"I believe you." Sam said, and there was just the faintest inkling of conviction in Sam's voice this time, Dean noted with a measure of relief. He still seemed to be working on the whole _trust_ thing, though. He asked, "Can...can I see the bottle?"

Dean's jaw clenched, but he nodded and held up the bottle of Tylenol. Sam reached for it and Dean let him take it even though it was obvious Sam was struggling to focus. Dean watched, sick at heart, as Sam tried to read the label. Finally, the bottle fell from Sam's shaking hands to the bed.

Sam looked at him for a brief second, before closing his eyes. His whisper was broken by a choked off sob as he said, "Can't tell. I can't be sure…."

Dean's eyes burned with tears and he had to scrub at them for a second in order to see clearly again. Sam had curled over so far that he was almost face down against the pillow. His entire body was shaking and Dean heard him whispering, "Dean, please help me."

And that shattered something deep inside Dean that he wasn't sure he could ever repair. This was what he'd had nightmares about ever since the moment he'd heard what the consequences of putting Sam's soul back might be. At the time, he had known it was the right thing to do. _How could it not have been?_ But at this moment, Dean wasn't so sure that he'd made the right choice after all.

Sam had begged him not to do it and now he was pleading for help from a brother he didn't even seem to believe was real.

Putting a hand to Sam's shoulder, Dean could feel the heat pouring off him through the t-shirt. He had no idea how much of what was going on was related to the fever and how much was just sheer exhaustion.

And he was far too terrified to question how much of this might actually be his brother broken beyond any repair.

* * *

 **Ahh! I feel just so cruel after writing this chapter. :( I promise to put them back together the way I found them...just not for awhile yet. ;)**

 **PS. I am a registered nurse...but I am not a doctor nor an expert on...well almost anything haha! So for all the medical stuff...I'm using 11 years of experience with patient care, a very thick Medical-Surgical Nursing textbook and good old google searching. :D I do make every effort to be as medically accurate as possible. Just know that I truly am trying to keep this all very believable and accurate to what I think could have been going on following "The Born Again Identity" with Sam. Much as I ADORE fics where he crashes, gets a lot of sleep, and is ok, (and trust me I LOVE those fics!) I just wanted to explore what could have happened if he wasn't quite so fine quite so quick. I think he had a lot of serious health issues going on following what he'd gone through (and they will be explored/explained in more detail as the story goes along).**

 **What's going on with Dean...well that too is actually based on what he was going through in S7. I'm definitely creating a situation...but i think it is pretty believable given the circumstances (and just forgive any medical inaccuracies along the way! I'm trying haha!). :) You'll have to stay tuned to find out more! For all of you Dean-whump lovers...I promise he is going downhill. He doesn't want to admit it...but he is! :)**

 **Thanks so much for taking the time to read. :)**


	7. Ch7: Never leave you all alone

**A thousand apologize for the delay in this chapter. I wanted it to be up on Monday but...life. Lol! For one thing i went to see Boston live in concert Sunday night which was AWESOME...but not so good when i had to get up for work at 5 am the next morning. So i was pretty exhausted Monday night lol. Tuesday I worked a 12 hr day so I did work on the story in the evening but, again, I was pretty worthless. Today I finally, finally feel satisfied with this chapter. Thanks to my ever phenomenal beta, L.H. the 2nd, for her help on this (and all chapters). Without her help, there would be a lot more grammatical and other errors lol!**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 7:**_ _ **Never leave you all alone**_

Sam burned with the fever all night long and Dean sat by his side the entire time; cold towels and melting ice packs at hand. Just about every half hour without fail, he contemplated taking Sam to the urgent care center the manager had not so subtly pointed out to him. Every time, though, Dean had talked himself out of it. Not because he wasn't convinced Sam needed medical attention but because he was afraid of what the medical attention might do to him. The last thing he wanted was for someone to decide Sam needed to be locked up again. Given some of the terrible things he incoherently rambled about, it was a legitimate concern.

So Dean did what he could, which wasn't much, to get them both through the never-ending night. He coaxed Sam to drink sips of water every hour and, except for two occasions, Sam kept the fluids down. There was no point in trying to get him to take any Tylenol, but Dean tried a few times anyway until he just couldn't stomach Sam's terrified pleas at the sight of the pills anymore.

It was torture listening to Sam beg to be allowed to leave; Dean wasn't ever quite sure _where_ Sam thought he was that he wanted so desperately to be able to escape. It didn't really matter. _Hell or the hospital,_ Dean assumed, knowing either one was just as likely as the other. It was torture hearing him beg to be allowed to lay down when he was already flat on the bed. It was torture listening to him endlessly whispering _no_ to things only in his head; things Dean didn't want to even try to imagine, but all too easily could. Nothing Dean said or did eased the awful delirium. He talked himself hoarse by midnight but nothing convinced Sam that he was real. Sam just called for him in a wrecked voice all night long and Dean used the liquor in Bobby's flask to ease his own pain.

Just after three, the fever finally broke, leaving Sam a shivering, sweat-soaked mess. He was confused and exhausted, but more coherent than he'd been in hours. Dean dug out dry clothes and helped Sam change; getting him resettled comfortably in bed took everything they both had left. At least Sam was lucid and finally able to take some Tylenol for the blinding headache he admitted to without much prompting. Sinking back against the pillow, he closed his eyes with a whispered _thanks_.

Once he was certain Sam had fallen asleep, Dean dragged himself up; ready to head toward the couch and crash for a few hours. He didn't make it that far, though. Bone weary and in pain, he collapsed face first on the other side of the bed. He wasn't in the mood to be choosy and if Sam needed something he'd be that much closer to help when the time came. Feeling justified in hogging one side of the bed, Dean turned his face toward Sam and fell asleep.

* * *

Waking up was a slow, difficult process and Sam was 100% sure that he would have preferred to remain asleep. He wondered how long he'd been sick and what he'd been sick with. For a moment, he drew a blank, but as he became more alert, he started to remember. It was all vague and disconnected, and the first thing he could remember clearly was a voice in his head that refused to shut up. Something about that memory made his heart skip a beat, so he decided to leave it alone for the moment. In all honesty, he was far too tired and in too much pain to care. His muscles ached and he felt incredibly weak. He wasn't comfortable, not at all, but he was too tired to try to move.

After a few minutes silently pondering what had happened, Sam forced his eyes open. They closed again almost immediately and it took him three more tries and a whole lot of concentration to keep them open long enough to look around. He found himself staring at a nondescript chair.

Frowning, he tried to make sense of where he was. In a bed. A decent one. Motel? Must be. The chair wasn't anything special but it was right up against the bed as if... _Dean_. As if Dean had been sitting there. Swallowing, Sam grimaced at the soreness of his throat. Felt like he'd shouted till he had no voice left. Chilled at the thought, Sam pushed it aside. His mouth was dry and he would have given anything for a drink. Knowing he didn't have any hope of getting one for himself, he went back to thinking about the chair and where Dean might be if he wasn't sitting in that chair. The wall beyond the chair and the tiny bit of the room he could barely make out from where he lay told him nothing. He was on his back in bed, covered with a blanket that was making him feel way too warm.

Sam pushed at the blanket weakly, and considered calling for Dean. His throat hurt too much for him to want to try, though, so he just pushed the blanket off his chest, feeling sharp pain in his side as he moved. One hand to his ribs, Sam tilted his head slowly against the pillow until he was able to see the other side of the room. It was dark, although he could see a faint glow of light around the window. Late evening or early morning, he decided, not able to remember which one it was. As his eyes adjusted a bit more to the gloom, he smiled.

Dean was on his stomach, sound asleep next to him on the bed, drooling into the pillow.

With a sigh, his smile faded and Sam let his eyes fall closed. He would have gladly gone back to sleep, but quickly discovered now that he was awake, there was no hope of any more sleep. The soreness of his entire body and the dull headache would have been enough to keep him awake, but he might have been able to ignore them if it weren't for his suddenly racing thoughts. Thoughts that spun in every direction, never settling, never clear. Despite the aggravating muddle, things began to filter back.

Things he would have rather forgotten.

A deafening smash of metal against metal from somewhere close by sent his heart rate skyrocketing.

 _The slam of the cage door…_

Sam's eyes snapped open and then he was sitting up and fighting the sheets and hyperventilating and trying very hard not to wake Dean up with his panic attack. Even as he tried to convince himself of what deep down he _knew_ was true, that he was out of the cage and free from the devil, Sam bit back a scream as he felt a hundred years of agony tear through him. _It's over, it's over, it's not happening!_ He focused on that mantra and got his feet on the floor; ready to run. Where, he wasn't sure, but he was ready to run. Even if he couldn't quite sit up straight.

"Sam?" Dean's voice sounded all wrong. Weak, raspy and pained.

Sam heard movement behind him. He'd awakened his brother, and Dean was probably pushing himself upright, trying to figure out what was going on. He could visualize him and he wanted to turn to him; to confirm he was real. But he couldn't because the merest _hint_ that he might have been wrong about all of it left him paralyzed and unable to turn. The room, already dimly lit, seemed to grow darker and Sam felt the bed shift and that was it. He needed to go _now_ before whatever it was that was behind him grabbed him and yanked him back…

Pushing off the bed, he was on his knees a second later; his legs refused to hold him up. The fall was dizzying and he could hear rushed footsteps and Dean calling his name again. Sam couldn't respond, his voice gone as he sucked in desperate breath after breath. Dark spots were overlaying the darkness of the room and he squeezed his eyes closed, arms wrapped tightly around his chest as the sharp pain in his ribs reminded him that careful breathing was a better idea.

"Sam! Take it easy. Come on, calm down." Dean's voice still sounded off, but he sounded concerned and very close and Sam reached out a hand, blindly searching. He caught a hold of fabric and then felt a hand on his arm as Dean said, "It's just me. Calm down."

The hand on his arm squeezed gently but it felt like his arm was snapping in half. Sam pulled away, feeling the skin shred off his arm... _not real!_ He _knew_ it wasn't. _Knew_ it was just his brother, but he couldn't stop himself. Sam pushed and shoved and hit at the hands that were reaching for him, touching him, pulling him.

"No!" He shouted and his voice sounded as odd as Dean's did. Still batting blindly at the hands that were trying to grab him, Sam lost his balance and fell backwards against the wall. The jolt sent tidal waves of pain through his entire body and he felt scalding hands on his shoulders. Steadying him. _Tearing his arms off…_ Helping. _Hurting._ Gasping, he doubled his fight and begged, "No, no, no, no...let me go. Let me go!"

The hands let go immediately and, as he kept struggling away, he remembered he was already pressed against the wall and he felt trapped. And the presence, _it's just Dean!_ , was too close and Sam used what strength he had left to push and shove and strike out until he finally registered the fact he was throwing punches at his brother. Even so, he found himself unable to stop until he felt nothing in front of him. He heard a thud, a grunt of pain, and then some very soft, very colorful cursing from a few feet away.

Teeth chattering, breaths coming too fast, Sam pressed back harder against the wall, wrapping his arms around his chest and drawing his knees up for protection. The room was spinning uncontrollably and he felt too hot and too cold all at once. After a few seconds, some of the haze cleared and he could see Dean sitting a few feet away, his back pressed against the bed. Dean had a hand to the middle of his own chest and looked like he might be sick. The expression on his face was nothing short of terrified devastation.

Sam was shaking, breaths pounding against sore ribs, and he felt the burn of tears as he realized what he'd done. Once again, he hadn't been able to tell, hadn't been able to distinguish what was real and what was memory. _Nightmare_. Sam stared at Dean as he stared back, shocked and worried. Dean was rubbing at his chest and Sam whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Sammy." Dean's voice was hushed, but it sounded right this time. He inched closer, one hand still to his chest, the other raised non-threateningly.

"No, no, please," Sam begged, trying to get further away. The worry in Dean's eyes deepened and Sam hated it. Hated that _he'd_ done that. Warily keeping his eyes on his brother, Sam wanted to explain, but all he could say was, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Don't." Dean cut him off. He remained exactly where he was, but some of the fear faded and he looked angry. But when he spoke again, he didn't sound angry. "Don't apologize. Sam, stop it. Please, man. It's ok. Alright? It's ok. You're fine."

Sam nodded, lifting one hand to rub at his eyes.

Dean stayed still as he said, "You need to calm down now, though. Slow breaths."

It took what seemed like a lifetime, but finally Sam's breathing eased. Some of the panic began to fade, leaving him dazed and ill. He let his head rest back against the wall as he kept his eyes on Dean. His brother remained exactly where he had been, although he lowered his hand.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" Dean asked softly after another silent minute.

Sam's breath caught and he started to shake his head, but instead admitted, "I heard it."

"Heard what?"

 _He didn't hear it! It wasn't real. It was all in your head, you_ are _still crazy!_

"Sam? Heard what?"

"Th-th-the cage…the door...it slammed and I…" Sam stammered, trying to push away the memory of the awful sound.

Dean shook his head and said quickly, "It was a car door, Sam. A car door. From up the road. That's all it was. Ok? I heard it too. I heard it too."

The relief hit him like a Mack truck. Relief that it _had_ been real and relief that Dean knew him well enough to understand what had happened.

"You weren't sure it was real, were you?" Dean asked, voice low, cautious.

Sam shook his head and said again, "I'm sorry."

"Sam…"

"Woke you up."

"Not the first time…"

"Punched you."

Dean snorted, "Dude, we need to do more training if that's what you're calling a punch these days."

Sam tried to appreciate the humor, but he was too miserable. For what seemed like the tenth time, he said, "I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that." Dean ground out like he was personally offended. He cautiously leaned forward and his voice was low and gentle again when he said, "It's all ok. I just...I don't know what," he broke off, then ran a hand through his hair, leaving it looking even worse than it already did as he added, "I don't know how to help you."

Since he didn't have any good suggestions on that topic, Sam lowered his head to rest against his arms across his knees. He heard Dean moving and Sam stiffened, trying to keep as far away as he could. Then Dean sighed and the silence that followed was uncomfortable and heavy but there was no more movement. For what seemed like a really long time, they sat in silence. His heart rate slowly returned to something closer to normal and Sam started to relax.

The silence went on for another few minutes until Dean said, "Sam? How're you…"

"Leave me alone." Sam said, hating himself even as he said it. But Dean was too loud, _everything was too loud,_ and he needed it all to stop for awhile.

Dean sighed again and even _that_ was too loud. There was a clock ticking somewhere and he could hear his breathing and Dean's breathing and the sound of his heartbeat. _Too loud!_ Sam wanted to put his hands over his ears to block it all out, but couldn't spare the energy. His hands were digging into his knees, holding him together. He pressed his head against his arms. Everything was one wrong move from falling apart.

He lost track of time but a moment finally came where he stopped noticing his heartbeat, his breathing, Dean's breathing, the clock. The room was quiet. Sam turned his head until he could see past his arms. Dean was sitting against the bed, legs spread out in front of him, hands at his sides, head tilted back against the bed. His mouth was hanging open.

Asleep.

Sam relaxed a little more. He closed his eyes and rested for a long time. The position was uncomfortable and he was cold, and he didn't think he could move if he wanted to. But he was extremely thirsty. Opening his eyes again, he didn't move, but asked, "Dean?"

Dean sucked in a breath, then yawned. His head rolled along the edge of the bed and Sam could tell it took effort for him to get his eyes open. But once they were open, it was like a switch was flipped. He lifted his head quickly, but made no other fast movements. Dean looked at him and asked, "Yeah?"

"Water?"

"Sure." Dean said, keeping his voice low. He pushed himself forward an inch, eyes wary. He asked, "You ok?"

"I'm not gonna freak out if you stand up." Sam said, realizing why Dean was moving so carefully. Embarrassment flooded him as he remembered his spectacular freak out from earlier. _He was trying to help you and you punched him, no wonder he's moving slow!_

Dean's face twitched, then he smiled, "Just checkin."

Despite his claim, Sam watched Dean with an uneasy flutter in his stomach. Dean seemed to sense it, because he kept his movements very slow as he pushed himself to his feet, using the bed for support. By the time he got to his feet, Sam had managed to lift his head off his arms. He leaned back against the wall and watched Dean. He moved stiffly, his steps pausing midway as he rubbed at his chest, before he finished crossing the room. Something seemed off, Sam frowned. It made sense that Dean would be tired, stiff even from sitting on the floor. But there was something else going on. His posture was all wrong. He moved like he was hurting.

Sam made a mental note to ask him about it. _After_ he had a drink. Dean came back with the bottle of water in his hand and crouched down by the end of the bed; a careful four feet away. He took the cap off, then met Sam's gaze and waited.

"I'm ok." Sam insisted, sensing the hesitation. He forced a smile and held out a hand that was disturbingly shaky. Dean nodded and moved closer; but every movement was still slow and deliberate. Sam hated it. It made him feel stupid, weak, _broken_. Tension erupted and he practically shouted, "Stop acting like I'm going to have a panic attack!"

 _Never mind that he'd just had one moments ago_ … He was breathing heavily again, staring at Dean, defensive and furious and ready to fight.

Dean didn't even blink an eye at his outburst. He seemed completely unimpressed and just asked mildly, "You done?"

Sam deflated, feeling like a five-year old. Growing up, Dad had usually blown his stack at his tantrums, but Dean always let him fuss and holler, usually till he was too breathless to continue, then he'd simply ask, _you done?_ No matter how old he'd been, no matter what the outburst had been about, that had been Dean's standard response. One of the only times he could remember Dean _not_ asking that had been the night he'd left for Stanford and _that_ was something he did not want to think about right now.

Headache flaring, he nodded, held out a hand, and said, "Give it to me."

Pointing at Sam's shaking hand Dean said, "Fine. You gonna wear it or you want help?"

"Just give it to me." Sam reached out, patience long gone.

Dean's mouth tightened, but he held out the bottle. Sam took it and managed not to spill a drop. He had to close _both_ hands around it or he would have dropped it, though. Resting it on his knee, he stared at it. The bottle shook in his hands and the water bounced so much it made him feel seasick. Stomach turning, he closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the bottle until the plastic crackled under his fingers.

"Sam."

"What?" He snapped, not opening his eyes.

"Stop being an idiot." Dean said and he didn't sound annoyed or angry. He just sounded _normal_. Sam forced his eyes open. Dean held out a hand and asked, "Will you just let me help you?"

Sam nodded. _The hell with pride, just get me a drink!_

"Ok." Dean sounded relieved. He inched forward again, but this time his movement wasn't so skittish. His hand pushed one of Sam's aside, then closed around the bottle.

Together, they managed to keep the water from spilling as he took a drink. The water wasn't cold but it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His mouth was so dry and his throat was so painful that he wanted to keep drinking until the entire bottle was gone, but Dean pulled it away. Sam let him take it because he was too tired to hold it any longer.

Dean put the bottle on the floor between them and settled against the bed opposite him, still crouched down, arms resting on his knees. He asked, "How's it settling?"

Sam rocked a hand back and forth. It was settling. Not as well as he would have liked, but at least it wasn't coming straight back up.

"Give it a minute then you can have some more." Dean said, sounding confident and authoritative all at once.

Nodding, Sam stretched his stiff legs out in front of him, feeling the weakness in his muscles as he did so. Remembering the uncomfortable way Dean had been moving earlier, he asked, "Are you ok?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded.

Sam didn't believe him. Dean didn't look ok. The longer he studied him, the more concerned Sam grew. Because it didn't look like he was the only one who had been sick. Registering the dark circles under Dean's bloodshot eyes, the pallor of his skin, the weariness in his posture, Sam almost could pass it off as the effects of Dean exhausting himself to the breaking point from taking care of him. But deep down, he knew better. Something more was going on with his brother.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam pressed.

"Nothing." Dean answered predictably. He shook his head and said, "Been a long week is all."

Sam agreed with him on that point, even if he still knew Dean was hiding something.

"Wanna try some more water?" Dean asked, picking up the bottle.

Reaching for it, Sam managed to hold it himself this time. A little splashed on his shirt, but the important thing was that he'd managed on his own. It was a pathetic thing to feel proud of, but he couldn't help it. Setting it back down on the floor, he almost spilled it. Dean caught it in the nick of time. He left the bottle where it was and asked, "You want to try to get back into bed now?"

"No." Sam said immediately. He didn't want to even consider moving yet.

Dean didn't press the issue.

"Time's it?" Sam mumbled, still not sure if the pale light around the windows was from early morning or late evening light.

"Just after six." Dean answered, sounding like he could easily fall asleep.

"In the morning?" Sam asked, frowning.

"Yes, genius. Morning usually follows long, sleepless nights." Dean yawned.

"I don't remember." Sam said, even though he did. _Parts of it anyway._ He watched Dean's eyes slide closed and said, "You can go back to bed."

"Oh. Ok, Sam. Sure." Dean said, the sarcasm thick in his tone as he sat up a bit more and leveled a glare. "I'll just hop under the covers and take a nice nap and leave you there on the floor."

Sam laughed and saw the surprise in Dean's eyes. With a tired smile, he said, "Seriously. You look like hell. I'm fine right now. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean rolled his eyes. Ignoring Sam's statement, Dean asked, "You think you can handle it if I grab something to eat?"

Sam considered. The water was doing ok so far and even though he wasn't ready to try to eat anything yet, he decided he could probably tolerate it; depending on what Dean intended to eat. Before he could say that though, Dean continued, "I picked up some blueberry muffins yesterday. Nothing too smelly. What do you think?"

"Ok."

Dean nodded and pulled himself slowly to his knees. He paused, cast him another assessing look, and asked, "Still dizzy?"

"Yeah. But better than yesterday," Sam admitted. _Things are only spinning in one direction today so that's something at least._

Dean smiled, pleased. He got to his feet, then sat on the edge of the bed as if he were too tired to move further than that without a break. Rubbing the back of his neck, he yawned again, then asked, "Try some more Dramamine?"

"Sure."

As Dean rose and crossed the room, Sam closed his eyes and waited. He decided there was actually a chance he was going to be ok after all. In the next second, though, he decided he shouldn't have been quite so optimistic. Because, for the first time, he realized how quiet it was. It should have been a good thing. After months of never-ending chatter. Months of trying to block out _his_ voice. It should have been wonderful. He couldn't understand why it wasn't. But it wasn't wonderful. It was the opposite of wonderful. Sam tried to focus on the sounds of Dean moving around, getting the Dramamine and the muffins. It wasn't enough.

Swallowing hard, he called out, "Dean?"

Dean turned immediately and Sam could see that Dean knew something was wrong. He thought he'd kept the panic out of his voice, but obviously he hadn't done as good a job as he thought he had.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, hurrying back over, one muffin in his hand; the box of Dramamine in the other. He hovered a few feet away, apparently unsure what he should do. He prompted, "Sam? What happened?"

Fighting to keep himself from having another panic attack, Sam said, "It's nothing. Just….can you...can you turn the TV on?"

Dean looked completely floored. It took him a long time to process the request and by then Sam was ready to peel his own skin off to distract himself from the silence. Dean tossed the box of medicine on the bed and turned quickly to flip the TV on. He glanced at Sam and asked, "There a documentary on at six in the morning that you didn't wanna miss?"

Sam loved him for the attempt at humor. All he said was, "Turn it up."

Dean did so without comment. He hovered by the TV for a few seconds and, even though Sam closed his eyes, he could feel Dean's assessing gaze. He heard movement and knew from the way Dean sighed that he hadn't hidden his flinch as well as he would have liked. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dean sit down across from him again. Dean set the muffin on the floor next to him and shook out a tablet of the Dramamine. He said, "Try this. Then in a few minutes, maybe you'll be willing to try something to eat."

Sam nodded, taking the pill with another sip of water. His hands were still shaking badly enough that he had to set the bottle down in between each drink he took. Dean unwrapped his muffin, studying him the entire time. For a few minutes, they were quiet. The TV in the background helped ease the fear he didn't know how to describe. Sam kept drinking the water and avoiding Dean's gaze.

"Wanna tell me what's going on?" Dean asked softly.

Looking over at him, Sam saw that Dean was keeping his eyes on his muffin as he carefully broke off a small bite. Sam wasn't sure he was ready to discuss what was going on yet. The silence continued and Dean let it go. He finished the muffin, then looked up and said, "Not too bad."

Knowing that was Dean's subtle way of trying to see if Sam was ready to eat something, Sam considered it. He'd almost finished off the bottle of water which was more than he'd been able to keep down before. Maybe it was time to consider eating.

Dean must have sensed his thoughts, because he asked, "When's the last time you ate?"

Sam honestly couldn't remember.

What he did remember was the last few times he'd _tried_ to eat. And he wished he hadn't started thinking about it. He remembered the maggots crawling out of his sandwich and the _other stuff_ he'd seen in his food and the mere memory of it turned his stomach. He heard Dean cursing as all the water came back up before he even realized he was going to puke.

And once he started, he couldn't stop. Stomach cramping, he leaned forward and dry heaved until he thought he was going to die. Pain flared behind his eyes and he felt Dean's hands catching him as he lost all sense of which way was up and which way was down. He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't stop heaving even though he had nothing left to bring up. Dean was talking to him, holding on to him, but Sam couldn't make out anything he was saying over the ringing in his ears.

Curling up in a ball, Sam could taste the tang of copper on his tongue and it just made him retch even harder.

* * *

This was a vivid example of why you should never, ever think the dangerous thought _things can only get better from here._ Dean had been every bit as surprised by what had happened as Sam had been. Things had been going ok. Everything had calmed down and Dean had dared to hope they were making progress. He probably should have guessed that the thought of food might not settle as well with Sam as the water had settled. Even so, he hadn't expected this. And neither had Sam. Dean had seen the complete shock in his eyes when the water started coming up. The shock had faded almost immediately as the painful dry heaving had begun.

Sam crumpled forward, still heaving and trying to curl up into the smallest ball possible. Dean caught him, eased him onto his side, cringing as he listened to the painful gagging and gasping noises Sam was making now. Rubbing his back, not sure if that was helping anything or not, Dean at least took comfort in the fact Sam wasn't pushing him away. His reaction earlier had scared Dean more than he wanted to admit. After the long, miserable night, having Sam fighting him, scrambling away from him left Dean truly wondering if they were ever going to be able to put the pieces back together.

He knew that this was probably more of a panic response than anything else, not that Sam didn't have plenty of reasons to be nauseated. Dean kept up a litany of completely useless platitudes as he waited for Sam to calm. The dry heaving just would not quit, though, and Dean choked on his next words when he leaned down a bit more and caught sight of Sam's face. The splatter of blood on his lips was enough to make Dean get to his feet and head for the phone. Thoughts spinning, Dean knew that the blood was probably just from the vicious retching, but he wasn't ready to take anything for granted. Hating every second that he left Sam laying there on the dingy carpet, Dean practically ran to the bathroom for a damp washcloth. Snagging his phone on the way back, Dean shoved it into his pocket. Reaching his brother's side, he found himself able to take an easier breath.

Sam had finally stopped sounding like he was going to vomit up every internal organ. His eyes were even open. Slightly. But they were tracking Dean's movements and that helped ease his panic. A little. The sight of blood on his brother's lips was going to ensure he remained in the general vicinity of panic for a while longer. One arm wrapped around his chest, Sam was breathing like it hurt, which it no doubt did, and shaking so hard Dean could almost feel the floor vibrating. Sam's free hand touched his throat and Dean saw the pain in his eyes as his mouth moved wordlessly and he gagged again.

"Stop that. Calm down." Dean said as if his order would have any effect. Kneeling down, he quickly wiped the washcloth over Sam's mouth. Once the blood was gone, Dean relaxed a little more. He balled up the bloody washcloth and pitched it aside; last thing he wanted was for Sam to see the blood. Based on his reaction to, _well everything,_ Dean didn't want to see what would happen if he saw that. One hand on Sam's shoulder, he said, "Starting to think we need a hospital, Sam."

Dean wasn't surprised at the quick shake of the head he got in response. Sam's hand was still pressed to his throat and he gagged again as he tried to say something. Wishing there was something, _anything,_ he could to to help with the pain, Dean said, "Don't talk, you idiot. Just shut up and listen to me."

That earned him a pissy glare. Dean ignored it and twisted around, snatching a pillow off the bed. He leaned back down and eased Sam's head off the floor and onto the pillow. Leaving his hand behind Sam's neck for a moment, Dean cursed inwardly as he felt the warmth. Nowhere near as bad as it had been during the night, but too warm to be normal.

Sitting back, he said, "You're not getting better."

Sam's lips moved again and even though the sound that came out was hoarse and almost inaudible, Dean knew what he'd said. Shaking his head, Dean smiled and said, "You're not fine. Try selling that pack of lies to someone who hasn't spent the past two days with you."

"No hospital." Sam whispered brokenly, hand still to his throat.

Sighing, Dean said, "Well then get better would you?"

Sam snorted, then grimaced. He said, "Taste blood."

"Yeah. That's what happens when you upchuck that much nothing," Dean commented, sounding a lot more casual than he felt. "How about some water?"

All he got in response was a groan.

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket. A slip of paper drifted to the floor next to him. Glancing down, he picked it up and a different thought crossed his mind as he remembered his chance meeting yesterday. He looked back at Sam who was studying him quizzically. Considering, Dean smoothed out the note.

"What's that?" Sam asked and Dean grimaced at the sound of Sam's voice. _As if he hadn't sounded bad_ _before_ , Dean mused, eyes still on the note.

"You did." Sam spoke again, a hint of a smile in his reddened eyes.

"Did what?" Dean looked up, feeling like he'd missed half of the conversation.

"Got a girl's number."

Dean couldn't help but grin. He _had_ gotten a girl's number. He said, "It's not what you think."

Sam's eyebrow rose and, finally, he stopped rubbing at his throat.

Knowing he was waiting for an explanation, Dean asked, "You remember that time in Arizona? That Christmas right after we went back on the road together?"

There was a long silence, then a light went on in Sam's dull eyes and Dean knew he remembered when he smiled, "Yeah."

"Ran into Arla yesterday."

"Really?"

Dean nodded.

"How is she?" Sam asked, showing more interest in this conversation than he'd shown in anything for the past two days.

"Good." Dean smiled briefly. "She said they're doing good. They're here on vacation. Gave me her cell phone number."

After that, conversation died off for a few seconds. Dean met Sam's eyes briefly and could easily read his thoughts. They were both thinking the same thing. She would help them in a heartbeat. They only needed to ask.

Sam looked at the piece of paper in Dean's hand and whispered, "You gonna call her?"

"I don't know," Dean said, following his gaze back to the piece of paper. He stared at it for a moment, then looked back at Sam and decided that the decision was up to him. Dean asked, "Do you want me to?"

"No."

Dean crumpled the paper up, hating the expression on Sam's face. _Shame. He doesn't want her to see him like this. Doesn't want her to know what he's been through._ Dean knew without needing to have it spelled out for him. Pitching the paper into the wastebasket, he sighed and said, "Sam."

"I know." Sam whispered. "I'm trying."

"I know you are. I'm just…" Dean broke off. What was he? Worried? Hell, yes. Terrified? Hell, yes. Did he want to admit any of that to his little brother? Hell, no!

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Think I'm ready to get off the floor." Sam said, swallowing painfully and putting a hand down on the carpet to push himself slowly back to a sitting position. He wavered unsteadily and leaned against the wall, face ashen.

Dean rubbed his neck and knelt down next to Sam, feeling the pull of strained muscles. It wasn't just his back that was bothering him, either. Maybe the muffin had been bad or something, because his stomach didn't feel right. _Probably a combination of not eating right, not sleeping, oh and hauling a giant, deadweight little brother everywhere._ He grabbed a hold of his giant, deadweight little brother and tried not to groan as he hauled him back to the bed. Sam curled up on his side, facing the other side of the room, hands digging into the other pillow.

Taking a quick walk around the bed, Dean rubbed at his sore back and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sam looked up at him and Dean asked, "Comfy?"

"Yeah."

And if it hadn't been for the misery written all over him, Dean might actually have believed him. He asked, "Water?"

Sam shook his head.

"You've got an hour." Dean declared. And he meant it. One hour. He needed to see improvement. He needed to see a miracle. He needed to see _something_.

"Till what?" Sam asked, and it wasn't because he didn't know what Dean's ultimatum meant.

"Till you turn into a pumpkin." Dean rolled his eyes, seeing the challenge in Sam's eyes.

"That happens at midnight, not seven in the morning."

 _Always gotta argue about everything, always gotta be right about everything,_ Dean thought in amusement. He said, "In case you somehow missed the newsflash, our lives have nothing in common with fairy tales."

"No fairy godmother?" Sam asked with a smile.

"No singing mice either." Dean grinned. "Did meet the big bad wolf though."

"And plenty of wicked witches."

"I hate witches." Dean shuddered. Sam nodded, then closed his eyes and Dean asked, "You gonna try to sleep?"

"Don't think I can." Sam's fingers tightened on the pillow he was gripping.

Dean decided not to push the subject. Instead, he asked, "You want the water?"

"Thought I had an hour."

"Thought we established this wasn't a fairy tale."

"No happy ending?"

Dean's jaw tightened. It could have been funny, but it really wasn't. Before he could comment, Sam went on quietly, "I don't even care if it's happy. Honestly. I just like the thought that there _is_ an end."

"Sam." Dean said, not liking the turn the conversation had taken.

Sam looked at him with a sigh, melting into the pillow as he said, "You should go back to sleep. You're gonna get sick if you aren't already."

"I'm not sick." Dean insisted, even though deep down, he had a really bad feeling that he was.

"Then...just...be quiet for awhile." Sam said wearily and lifted his hand from the bed briefly to give a half-hearted wave.

"Sam…"

"Please?" Sam begged, pressing his hands to his eyes. "My head is killing me."

"You've got fifty-nine minutes." Dean said, getting to his feet because he could tell the conversation was over.

He made it halfway to the couch before almost doubling over in pain. Biting back the gasp of pain, Dean wavered where he stood. Hand pressed to his stomach, he fought to draw breath. The blueberry muffin threatened a reappearance and he turned toward the bathroom. By the time he made it to the door, the pain had returned to a tolerable level and he didn't feel quite so close to throwing up as he had a second ago. Leaning against the door frame, he tried to catch his breath.

"I would have liked to see them again."

If he hadn't already felt ill, his brother's soft confession, and the longing in his words would have done the trick. Dean turned around, keeping one hand against the wall, and said, "I know. Maybe when you're on your feet again. She invited us for dinner…"

"No." Sam said immediately, "We need to stay away from them. It's not safe."

Dean agreed, but didn't bother saying so. He started again to head for the couch, but stopped when he heard Sam ask, almost desperately, "You leaving?"

Pausing, Dean shook his head and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Sam. Don't do that." Dean said, sensing a change in his brother; an increase in his anxiety yet again. "I'm not going anywhere, ok? Talk to me. What's going on?"

Sam met his eyes and said, "The worst thing he did…"

Dean didn't need any clarification as to who the _he_ was. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to hold Sam's gaze. If he was willing to talk about this, then Dean was going to be man enough to look him in the eye when he did so.

"He…" Sam started again after a brief hesitation, "He'd...you'd be there. A lot. Most of the time, actually. And no matter what...whatever _else_ happened, the worst thing was when...you left me there alone. I knew it wasn't you, but it..nothing hurt as much as that did."

Sam's voice broke and he finally dropped his gaze.

"I am right here." Dean said immediately, voice like steel, low and steady. He walked back to the bed, leaned over and grabbed Sam's shoulder as hard as he could and said, "I am right here, Sammy and I am _not_ going anywhere. You hear me? I am not leaving you. Now or ever."

He waited silently as several moments passed. His heart was in his throat as he waited to see if any of his words had registered with his brother. Finally, Sam looked at him again and nodded. Dean wasn't convinced Sam believed him, but it was a start. He released his grip, straightened and said, "Get some sleep."

"I'm supposed to sleep for fifty-nine minutes?" Sam asked, trying so hard to sound bitchy but he just sounded tired and scared.

"Fifty-five minutes." Dean muttered. He checked his watch, then stared blankly at the tv. "You still want that on?"

"Yes."

Nodding, Dean took one step toward the couch when Sam said, "You should sleep too. For fifty-five minutes."

Dean glanced at him and waved a hand at the couch, but Sam shook his head and slid back from the edge of the bed. He whispered, "I know you didn't sleep last night. Just lay down for awhile will you?"

"I'm not three. I don't need a nap."

"I don't care. _I_ need you to get some rest, ok?" Sam tapped his hand against the bed and said, "I'm having...it's a little...it's hard to remember I'm not in hell when you're looking like a damned corpse!"

Dean stared at him in shock, hearing the desperation, the way Sam's voice rose to a shout at the end. He knew the couch was a pull out bed, but he didn't have anywhere near the energy required to deal with that. All the fight melted out of him and he stumbled to the bed. Sitting on the edge, he said, "You steal the blankets or drool on my shoulder and I'll kick your ass out of bed."

"Deal." Sam almost smiled. He scooted back another inch, relief written all over his face.

Rolling his eyes, Dean shoved him over a few more inches just to be a pain; just to restore something resembling normalcy to the situation. Sam was doing everything _except_ spelling it out for him that he was scared to death. After everything that had happened, Dean didn't blame him, but it was disturbing all the same. Settling against the pillow, he had to admit laying back down felt pretty good. He took a quick peek at his brother, saw his eyes were closed and he seemed to finally be relaxed. Dean put his arm across his eyes, blocking out the light from the tv and the windows.

 _Fifty minutes,_ he told himself, _then we start putting the pieces back together. Fifty minutes and Sam starts eating and drinking and getting better._

Dean felt the bed shift and then felt Sam's head press against his shoulder. He smiled, but didn't move. He just whispered, "No drool."

The laugh he got in response made him believe, for the first time, that they were going to be ok.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

 **Also...did anyone watch the finale!? AHHHHHHHHH! PM me if you want to chat about it. I'm quite frankly beside myself right now...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry folks, had a couple glitches when I went to post. So if you got a notification the chapter was up...and then it wasn't...that's why. Technical difficulties lol! Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 8: Everybody needs someone beside 'em**_

"And something is very wrong!"

"Maybe he was just tired…"

"He was more than tired!" Arla Pender's voice rose as she thought back to when she had run into Dean Winchester the previous evening. "He looked terrible. Utterly worn down. Tommy, I'm worried about them!"

"I know you are, hon," Tommy said gently. "But like I said last night, there isn't much you can do…"

"I can go look for them! I got the license plate number and the make and model of that piece of trash car he was driving." Arla said, fingering the notepad on the kitchen counter. She stared longingly at the license plate number and said, "Could you…."

Tommy laughed but it wasn't a mocking laugh. "Arla, I can't use my resources to run the plate…"

"But…"

"...because if I did, do you really think those boys want that kind of attention?"

Arla sighed, still staring at the piece of paper. She knew she should have pressed Dean for more information, pressed him to accept her help. But there had been something dangerous and desperate in his eyes when they'd met in that parking lot; something that had made her step back when she wanted to rush forward. He'd been trying so hard to make her think everything was just fine, but she'd been able to read him like a book even if it had been years since she'd seen him.

"Arla?"

She adjusted the phone and said, "I hear you."

"After everything we've picked up on over the years, something tells me they don't need any police attention." Tommy continued, voice breaking up for a second over the phone.

"I know," Arla said, feeling helpless and frustrated, "but they _need_ help. Dean looked like he was barely standing and I'm worried Sam _isn't._ Dean didn't really say anything about him and he wasn't around."

"There's nothing you can do if they don't want your help," Tommy said, although she could hear the concern in his voice.

"I know this town well and I'm betting…."

"That if they don't want to be found, you won't find them," Tommy interjected. She could visualize his gentle smile and the amusement in his eyes as he said, "Babe, if those two boys don't want to be found, you could live right next door to them for ten years and never know it."

"Tommy," Arla sighed again, rubbing her head.

"I know you're worried. And I'm betting you have good reason to be. The life they lead…" This time _Tommy_ was the one sighing. "You know? I'm just thrilled that they're alive. I...sometimes I really wasn't sure…"

And they _hadn't_ been sure. For years they had wondered. Frequently, they'd remember that Christmas and wonder about the Winchester boys and what they were doing. Arla stared out the window and studied the lake as the rain poured down. Her feelings were complicated. She had been overjoyed to see Dean Winchester again, but the meeting had felt strained and he had rejected help that she would have gladly have given and he obviously needed.

"Arla?"

"I'm still here."

"Are you laying out maps and making battle plans?"

Arla glanced at her car keys and huffed, "I don't need a map, Thomas. I know this town, and all the motels, seedy and otherwise, where they might go."

Tommy laughed, "Well if you go, pack a lunch, ok? And don't be surprised if you find yourself facing down a gun when they open the door for you."

"Oh hush. I'm not afraid of those boys." Arla smiled briefly.

"I know, but maybe you should be…"

"Tommy."

"Just a little. They're dangerous, Arla. As much as we care about them, as much as I know you want to help them, you can't ignore the fact that they're dangerous men," Tommy said, and Arla almost couldn't hear his voice over the background noise. He added, "We have no idea what they've been through in the past six years. They aren't the same kids we helped out that Christmas and we have no idea what's going on now."

"I know, Tommy. I do." Arla said, walking closer to the window. Leaning against the wall, she stared at the dismal morning weather and felt her mood dampening more by the second. She said, "I realize that they've grown up and gone through who knows what, but, if you'd seen him, Tommy...he _was_ the same kid. He was happy to see me. And he _wanted_ to talk to me, but something held him back and he just shut down."

Tommy sighed and said, "Honey…"

"Don't honey me, Thomas Pender!" Arla cut him off, turning around and heading back to the dining room table. She hated feeling like her hands were tied. All she wanted to do was help.

"You gave Dean your number. If he wants your help, he'll call."

"That's what I'm worried about." Arla chewed her lip, staring at the licence plate number again.

"That he'll call?"

"No. That he _won't_ call."

Tommy sighed again, then there was a long silence. He finally spoke up, "I know you want to help them. And I'm not saying that you shouldn't keep your eyes open, ok? Just realize they may not want our help this time. No matter how much they may need it. You can't force them."

"I know," Arla said, closing her notebook and turning away. Forcing herself to move on to other things, she asked, "When are you coming?"

"Soon. The conference finishes up tomorrow and I'll be hopping the next plane to Indianapolis."

"Good. I miss you."

"I miss you too and I'll call you later tonight, ok?" Tommy said, "Gotta go to the next session…"

"Continental breakfast over?" Arla smiled knowingly.

"Got a bagel to go."

"After two plates of everything else…"

"Of course two plates. Growing boys need lots of protein and…"

"Growing around the waist, maybe." Arla rolled her eyes, "You aren't exactly getting any taller, my love. Alright, go to your session and get smarter than you already are and I'm going to...probably sit here and worry about those boys all day."

Tommy laughed and said, "Why don't you bake something. I'm sure I'll be hungry…"

"You're always hungry. Go get smart and I'll turn on the oven."

"Love you. Bake some of those cinnamony crumpet thingies. Talk to you tonight."

"Good bye you crazy man." Arla grinned, and hung up the phone. Her smile faded as she stared at the screen. If willpower could do anything, the phone would have lit up right then with a call from Dean Winchester.

But it didn't.

Setting the phone down, Arla stared at it for a moment, still waiting, but nothing happened. She rolled her eyes and turned around, heading for the kitchen. Turning the oven on, Arla said to herself, "If he wants your help, he'll call. They're probably a hundred miles away already."

* * *

Sam could hear Dean's easy breathing and, for the past few hours or so it had been enough. It had been enough to keep him calm and still. But it wasn't working any longer. The TV wasn't loud enough, Dean's breathing wasn't loud enough. _Nothing_ was loud enough to cover up the silence in his head.

Hands fisted at his sides, Sam stared at the ceiling and tried not to scream. He broke out in a cold sweat and bit his lip to stay quiet. Dean had fallen asleep almost as soon as he'd lain down and Sam had taken comfort in that initially. Now, his skin was crawling and he was fighting down the nausea yet again. He wanted to get up and run until he fell over from exhaustion or died of a heart attack. But he didn't dare move because he knew one move would probably be enough to wake Dean up and he didn't want to disturb his brother's sleep.

He'd been doing that enough lately.

Sam consciously forced himself to calm down before he had another panic attack. It was embarrassing enough that he'd lost it earlier, he didn't need to repeat the experience. He couldn't even fully understand what was wrong, why he felt the way he did, but Sam wanted to make it stop. His breaths were coming short and quick and he tilted his head to stare at Dean. So far, his brother didn't seem to be disturbed.

Looking past Dean at the clock, Sam saw that it was almost ten-thirty. Refocusing on his brother, Sam could tell he looked comfortable at the moment, but it was obvious how ill he was. There was something going on with his brother and it scared Sam. Dean was pale and obviously had been in pain when he'd been moving around earlier. But, as usual, he wasn't going to admit anything. And Sam was having a hard time keeping himself together without trying to unravel the mystery of what was going on with his brother.

Sam closed his eyes.

Nothing helped. The room still felt like it was spinning despite how long he'd lain in bed and he knew it was because he was dehydrated. Dangerously so. He would have given anything for a drink of water. The longer he thought about it, in fact, the more he couldn't stay still any longer. As carefully as he could, Sam rolled to his side and held onto the edge of the bed with everything he had left. He swallowed hard against the overwhelming nausea and held still, eyes pressed closed. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, but he didn't hear any movement behind him so he figured that he hadn't disturbed Dean. At least not so far. Getting himself upright on his own was going to be the real test.

After a while, the desire for a drink of water overcame his need not to move. Pushing himself upright, Sam almost fell off the bed before he managed to get his feet on the floor. The headrush was intense and he crumpled forward until his head was hanging low enough that he managed to forestall unconsciousness for the time being.

Once the buzzing in his ears died down, Sam realized the room was still silent except for the tv. Not daring to move yet, he listened for a few minutes, but Dean didn't say anything. Sam straightened after a few _more_ minutes and glanced over his shoulder. Dean was still sound asleep.

 _Small favors,_ Sam smiled half-heartedly.

It took him another interminable amount of time before he could move, but finally, the spinning of the room slowed to a more tolerable level and he decided it was now or never. Sam took a slow, careful breath and pushed himself to his feet.

And almost went straight to the ground.

Sheer willpower and a quick grab at the chair that was still beside the bed kept him from collapsing. Taking a half-step forward, Sam leaned against the wall, letting his head rest against it as he glanced back toward the bed. Dean slept undisturbed. Knees weak, Sam tried to keep his stomach where it belonged while not losing the desire to drink some water. Despite how scrambled his brain was, he knew enough to know that he didn't have much longer before he was going to be seriously screwed. He didn't need a doctor to tell him how sick he was. And he didn't want Dean to figure it out, either.

Keeping one hand against the wall, Sam fought with everything he had to get from point A to point B. The room blurred and spun. By the time he made it to the table, he was shaking and unsteady and almost tipped the table over as he leaned against it. A water bottle rolled off the table and it sounded like a bomb had gone off. His heart rate spiked and he looked over at the bed. Dean was still sound asleep.

The relief he felt was short lived once he started thinking about the fact that Dean really _should_ have been wide awake at that sound. Glancing down at the water bottle, Sam decided there was no way he was going to be able to lean over to pick up the bottle without winding up on the floor along with it. Looking back at the table, he saw the grocery bag and a bottle of Gatorade.

Not something he really wanted, but something he probably should be drinking. Lifting one hand, Sam grabbed the bottle. The room seemed suddenly too small, too quiet. The door was right in front of him and he struggled the few feet to the door. Getting it open took twice as long as it should have and he almost dropped the Gatorade before he could get out to the porch. Leaving the door wide open, Sam took one step to the right and leaned back against the outside wall. Hitting the wall was all the incentive his weakened body needed to sink straight to the ground.

Legs gone out from underneath him, Sam landed hard on his rear, jarring his broken rib and aggravating his never-ending headache. He leaned back against the wall, the Gatorade bottle still clasped in his hand. There was no way he was ready to attempt to take a drink yet. Trying to control his breathing, he stared out at the dismal weather

The rain was heavy and steady. As far as he could tell, no one was out and about at the moment. Most people were probably enjoying the morning rainstorm and sleeping in. Sam hoped the rain would help Dean rest longer. Wished it would have helped _him_ sleep.

Closing his eyes, Sam took a few shaky breaths as the pain in his side finally died down a bit. Head resting against the wall, he felt a measure of relief just being outside. The cabin had felt too claustrophobic, too stifling. Fresh air and a gentle breeze helped clear his head a bit.

And with the clarity came the memories.

Sam opened his eyes again and focused on the Gatorade. Just thinking about the hospital, about _why_ he'd wound up in the hospital in the first place, had his heart pounding again and he had to shove it all down because he needed to get past it and needed to get better so they could get back on the road and deal with...whatever came at them next.

Stretching his legs out in front of him, Sam lifted the bottle of Gatorade onto his lap and started fighting with the lid. His hands felt heavy, fingers stiff and clumsy as he fought to get the cap off. Every few seconds, he had to stop because he was too breathless to continue. By the time he got the cap off, he was so exhausted, he had to wait a few minutes to take a drink.

"This day sucks," He muttered to himself, finally lifting the surprisingly heavy bottle of Gatorade. It took both hands and a lot of concentration to manage a drink.

He almost spilled the entire bottle as he lowered it back to the porch. Once the bottle was on the porch, he pressed his hands down on the floor as his head thumped back against the wall. The world spun twice as fast and the sip of Gatorade left his stomach unsettled. He clamped his mouth shut in order to keep it all down.

Thunder rolled in the distance and drew his eyes to the grey sky. The rain was still coming down heavily and he felt the chill all the way to his aching bones and knew he should go back inside. But he didn't feel up to moving. He finally drew a breath without feeling like everything was imploding around him. So he sat still and tried to keep the Gatorade down and stay focused.

The Gatorade he counted as a success; the focus not so much. His mind was clearer, but his thoughts were racing and he still couldn't settle on one memory before another one superimposed itself on the first. He pressed his fingers to his eyes, deciding that maybe he didn't want to think so much.

"Sammy?"

"Out here." Sam called, lowering his hands.

He heard stumbling feet and a good bit of cursing before Dean appeared in the doorway. Looking up, Sam saw Dean leaning heavily against the door frame. He could feel Dean's assessing gaze and, for once, he didn't care. Because he was doing the same thing and he didn't like what he was seeing.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Dean asked, voice chewed up and hoarse. He was hanging on to the door frame with one hand like he had no other option.

"Needed some fresh air…"

"Open a freakin' window next time." Dean sounded pissed and worried and tired.

Sam stared up at him and waited for the rest of the lecture. But the lecture didn't come. Dean simply lowered himself to the porch on the other side of the open door. He had a hand pressed to his stomach as he sat down and kept his knees drawn up as he settled against the door frame. Sam tilted his head against the wall and studied his brother.

"You look terrible." _Terrible was putting it mildly._ He asked, "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing's going on." Dean said, running a hand over his face. "Just tired. Thought you were sleeping."

Sam shook his head, "Not really."

"Why not?"

"Mind's a little," Sam waved a hand, "busy."

Dean held his gaze, accepted the statement, then said, "Sorry I fell asleep."

"You needed it."

"Like you don't." Dean frowned and asked, "How're you feeling now?"

"Not great." Sam admitted, seeing no point in lying.

"Figured. I'm impressed you made it this far," Dean said with a smile. For a few minutes, they fell silent and listened to the rain falling. Then Dean pointed at the Gatorade. "You actually drink any of that?"

"Yeah."

"Not enough." Dean checked his watch and asked, "Did you sleep at all?"

"No."

Dean sighed heavily but didn't comment. Thunder rolled again, closer now, and Sam couldn't help flinching at the sound that reminded him of _darkness, fear, pain_. He kept his eyes on Dean, desperate not to forget where he was. _This is real. This is happening now. It's just a storm…_

In all honesty, he was having a hard time seeing. Everything was blurring and spinning and he found himself struggling to catch his breath and then Dean's voice faded in and out and everything started to grow dark.

* * *

"No, no, don't do that…" Dean sputtered, lunging forward and putting his hands against Sam's shoulders.

Rebalancing, he pinned him against the wall with his right hand, and pushed Sam's head back up with his left. Searching for any sign of awareness, Dean counted his blessings when bleary eyes slitted open for a few seconds. Lightning illuminated the dark, stormy morning and highlighted exactly how pale Sam was. Dean's hands were shaking and he felt a sharp pain in his gut that left him breathless for a good ten seconds. By the time he'd recovered a little, Sam had his eyes open again.

Still holding onto him, Dean asked, "You with me?"

"Mmhmm," Sam acknowledged, sounding far from alert, but his eyes were still open.

"You should have stayed put, you idiot." Dean breathed out, frustrated. Sam's skin was hot and dry under his touch despite the coolness of the weather. Shaking his head, he asked, "Why'd you have to get out of bed?"

Sam just shook his head back and forth against the wall, either unable or unwilling to answer Dean's question. Sighing, Dean said, "Well time to go. Enough fresh air."

"Don't…" Sam's hand tugged at his flannel shirt.

"Don't what?" Dean asked, not wanting to sit around talking.

"Don't let him come back, ok?"

Closing his eyes for a second to regroup, Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder. "He is _not_ coming back. Ever. You hear me?"

"They'll take me back…"

"No one's taking you anywhere."

"If they knew…" Sam went on as if he wasn't hearing a word Dean was saying.

Dean decided now was not the time to attempt to reorient him. It would be useless to argue; the brief moments when Sam actually seemed to have a clue what was going on were few and far between these days. It was hard to keep up with him when he drifted in and out of reality every few minutes. It was also painful. Every time Dean thought they were finally getting past the worst, things took a sharp turn in the wrong direction.

Keeping one hand on Sam's shoulder, he reached for the bottle of Gatorade with the other and said, "You need to drink some more of this. Then we'll go inside."

Sam nodded and took a drink without any argument. Dean let him take a few sips when it seemed he was alert enough not to choke on it or throw it right back up. Setting the bottle aside after a few minutes, Dean felt the spray of the rain on his back as the wind shifted. It had been coming straight down earlier, but now the wind was blowing more wildly and the last thing they needed was to get soaked to the skin.

He chanced taking his hand off Sam's shoulder and quickly put the cap back on the Gatorade. Setting it just inside the door, Dean said, "Time to go back to bed."

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Feel like crap."

Dean snorted, but smiled a little when he caught the hint of a smile on Sam's face. He said, "You look it. Come on."

Sam nodded and, with a lot of grunting and groaning from _both_ of them, they got on their feet. Dean gritted his teeth and steered them toward the bed. Sam collapsed onto it without a word and, asleep or unconscious, his breathing eased and he didn't stir when Dean pulled the covers over him. Putting a fist to his chest, Dean slowly straightened and swallowed hard against the burn in his throat.

 _Probably should have picked something up for my stomach,_ he thought, annoyed that heartburn was making him this miserable. Of course, it wasn't just the heartburn. He felt queasy from time to time and it would be just his luck to have caught a stomach bug along the way. Shaking his head, Dean went back to the door, retrieved the Gatorade and closed the door as another wave of rain came his way. Setting the bottle on the table, he sat down and dug out another blueberry muffin. He wasn't exactly hungry, but he knew he needed to eat. His hands were shaky and he felt lightheaded.

Unwrapping the muffin, Dean took a bite and glanced over at the tv. Some kind of morning talk show was on and that was one of the last things he was remotely interested in at the moment. Taking his muffin, Dean stood up, and almost tripped on a bottle of water on the floor as he crossed the room. Picking the bottle up, he flopped down on the couch and grabbed the remote. The noise of the tv still didn't seem to be bothering Sam, so he wasn't going to adjust the volume, but he _was_ going to find something better to watch.

* * *

A clap of thunder woke Dean out of a deep sleep. Hazy with sleep, he jerked upright, a bit disoriented and confused at first. The room was dark and quiet; the world beyond was anything but. Even with the blinds closed, he could see the bright flashes of lightning every few seconds as they illuminated the thin curtains. Thunder rolled almost continuously and the wind was so strong, he looked up at the ceiling, more than a little concerned the roof might actually lift off. When it didn't, he sat up a bit straighter on the couch. His stomach tightened at the movement and he rubbed at his chest when the pain spiked again. The muffin threatened a reappearance but, for the time being anyway, it stayed where it belonged.

The tv was off and there was no light from the microwave clock so he knew the power was off. Pressing the button on his watch, Dean was surprised to see it was almost one in the afternoon. Worry flooded him. He didn't even remember dozing off, but the thought that he'd been out of it for hours was disconcerting. Looking over at the bed, he was surprised to find it empty. Heart jumping into his throat, Dean realized this was the second time today that he'd found that bed empty when it was supposed to be occupied by a sleeping brother.

This time, though, the front door was still closed, and he heard running water in the bathroom. Pushing himself sit at the edge of the couch, Dean groaned as he stretched stiff muscles. His gear was next to the couch and somehow it seemed much easier to dig for a handful of Ibuprofen than to get up for the Tylenol on the table. Dry swallowing them, he stared at the closed windows and listened to the storm.

So engrossed in the storm, he didn't even hear the bathroom door open at first. Just as a particularly loud crack of thunder shook the cabin, Dean heard a sharp intake of breath. Looking up, he saw that Sam was standing in the bathroom doorway, both hands gripping the doorframe. He looked like he wasn't going to be on his feet for much longer. He also looked terrified.

And that whole _terrified_ thing was really something Dean should have spent a second or two considering before he got to his feet and hurried over to Sam's side.

Yeah, about the time Sam's fist connected with his face, Dean realized he probably shouldn't have rushed into the personal space of someone who tended not to be grounded in reality.

And when he hit the floor, Dean stopped realizing anything.

* * *

Sam saw a fuzzy shape rushing at him out of the darkness and reacted instinctively without conscious thought. Hearing a grunt and then a thud, he pressed back against the wall, readying for another attack. Lightning flashed around the edges of his vision and a clap of thunder shook him out of nightmare and into reality. He tried to remember what he'd been doing and why he was standing against the wall shaking like a leaf. He couldn't remember, though and decided that he should probably get to a place where he could sit down or, even better, lie down. About to take a step forward, he realized there was something on the ground in front of him blocking his path.

A second later, as he registered what _it_ was, his legs went out from under him and he dropped to his hands and knees.

 _Dean!_

He was sprawled on the carpet, one arm twisted underneath him, his head turned away and he wasn't moving. Thoughts jumping around like a thousand flies on a discarded hamburger, somehow the thought _is he alive?_ managed to remain the priority in his mind.

Numbly, he reached out and touched his brother. He could feel Dean's heartbeat and unsteady breathing, but no amount of shaking, calling, pleading or shouting roused him. Kneeling there, heart in his throat, Sam tried not to panic. Tried to think. He needed to get help. Something had been wrong with Dean for a long time now and whatever it was had obviously taken him down. Sam had no idea how long Dean had been on the floor. It scared him that he hadn't even heard Dean go down.

The thunder rattled the windows and his frayed nerves as he searched Dean's pockets for his phone. Sam didn't have a clue where _his_ phone was, but finally he found Dean's. Pulling it out, he squeezed his eyes closed, then rubbed at them. Nothing helped clear his vision. Everything was hazy, blurry, distorted. Kneeling there, he stared at the phone and tried to get his fingers to cooperate in dialing 911.

Before he even started, though, a new rush of fear washed over him.

What was he going to tell the paramedics? Sam put a hand down on the floor and closed his eyes, wavering where he knelt. Seeing Dean unconscious on the floor was disconcerting. He kept having visions of Dean being skewered alive...among _other_ things. Sure, all of that had been hallucinations, but when those memories were more clear than even those of what had happened in the past two days, Sam wasn't sure he would be able to talk to anyone without making it obvious in two sentences or less that he was mentally unstable.

Beyond that, though, was the paralyzing fear that if he said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, he might not be the only one they locked up this time. Because putting together the memories of the past year was an exercise in frustration, but he was pretty sure he remembered that they'd been wanted for murder. Again. He wasn't exactly up to spinning an elaborate cover story right now. And without an elaborate cover story, anything he might say could wind up costing them their freedom. Confident that any reasonable medical professional would want to send him straight back to the nut house, Sam hesitated. But, more than that, he hesitated because he could deal with it if that happened. What he _couldn't_ deal with, though, was the threat that Dean could wind up in jail because he screwed something up.

Groaning in frustration and pain, he looked back at Dean, who still hadn't moved, then at the phone. His thoughts turned to Bobby and, problem solved, he hit the speed dial. The phone rang and rang and by the time he had left an incoherent message after hearing Bobby's typically gruff recorded greeting, Sam remembered that Bobby was dead.

Tears burned his eyes as he realized they were truly alone.

But if they were alone, Sam wasn't going to be the weak link and let his brother die on the carpet of a shitty cabin. Trying again to rouse Dean, he still got no response and he was ready risk calling 911 before another thought crossed his mind. He looked blindly across the dark room and pushed himself to his feet. The fear that he'd imagined Dean's conversation about meeting a face from their past faded about the time he collapsed back to his knees in front of the waste basket. It was empty except for one crumpled piece of paper.

He _hadn't_ imagined it!

The piece of paper slipped out of his hands and he struggled to pick it up again. It took a life time for him to be able to read the phone number on it and five tries before he had the digits entered correctly into the phone. Slumped on the floor against the wall, he stared back across the room. Every few seconds, as lightning lit the room, he could see Dean but then the room faded into the darkness and he lost sight of his brother.

The phone only rang twice before a voice he never thought he'd hear again answered.

* * *

Arla set the tray of cinnamon muffins on the counter, counting her blessings that she had finished baking everything before the power went out. A pie, a batch of cookies, and the muffins were neatly displayed on the counter. Turning the oven off, she pulled off the oven mitts and left them on the counter as she stared out the window at the storm. So far, she still had power, but somehow she doubted she would for much longer. The radio in the background was fizzing in and out of reception and, between every song, they were giving updates on the storm that was drenching the entire county.

So engrossed in the violent display out the front windows, Arla jumped a bit when she heard her phone ring. Glancing at her watch, she decided it must be between sessions if Tommy was calling her again from the conference this early in the afternoon. Hurrying over to the table, Arla frowned when she saw the unfamiliar number on her phone. The passing thought that it might be a telemarketer ran through her mind, but she dismissed it immediately and flipped the phone open, heart suddenly pounding.

"Hello?" She held her breath and waited. The storm was messing with the reception and Arla prayed the call wouldn't drop. When she didn't get a response after a few seconds, she prompted, "Dean? Is that you?"

"Arla?" The voice wasn't Dean's.

"Sam?" She asked, not sure if she should be relieved to hear his voice, or worried that she _wasn't_ hearing Dean's.

"Can...can you…"

Reception fizzled out and then back in and Arla gripped the table with her free hand. When the silence continued longer than she was comfortable with, she asked, "Sam? Where are you?"

"...cabin. Not sure..."

Arla's heart rate went up even as she grabbed her keys and purse from the table. Heading for the front hall, she asked, "Are you still in town?"

"Think so."

 _Think so._ Arla's throat tightened. It sounded like Sam didn't have a clue and, while she was glad he'd called her, she was starting to worry she wasn't going to be able to find them. _If they left town...they could be anywhere!_ Hoping against hope that they were still in Cedrina, she asked, "Where's the cabin?"

Silence.

"Sam?"

"Not sure."

Thunder crashed over her, rattling the windows and her sanity. The lights went out. Standing there in the hallway, with barely any reception, no electricity, and someone on the other end of the line who clearly was in terrible shape, Arla couldn't help but mentally curse Dean Winchester's stupid stubbornness. _If he'd just let me help him yesterday,_ she thought, pulling her rain coat out of the front closet. Forcing the thought aside, she refocused on the crisis at hand.

"Sam, I need to know where you are." Arla's mind spun as she put the raincoat on. She asked, "Can I talk to Dean?"

She heard Sam's shaky breaths, then he said, "Hurry."

Another blast of thunder had her jumping nearly out of her skin. She wasn't scared of thunder, but right now, it was freaking her out. She gripped the phone tighter and forced herself to remain calm as she said, "Sam. I will come right to you. But I need to know where you are."

The silence went on and on and she thought she'd lost him. But every once in awhile she could still hear his uneven breathing. She'd told Tommy she knew the town like the back of her hand, and she did. Running through the different areas of town, the various motels and campgrounds, Arla knew there were only two places that offered cabins. _Assuming they're not just squatting at some empty cabin somewhere…_ Arla dismissed the thought. There were dozens of hunting cabins, private cottages and the like all around the lake. She needed more to go on if it was one of those.

Praying they were either at _Cooper's Cabins_ or staying at a cabin at Cedrina's country club, Arla asked, "Are you near the lake? Or near a golf course?"

"I don't know."

His voice was fading; he sounded as discouraged as she felt and Arla knew she needed to keep him talking. Deciding the country club likely would not have been their first choice, Arla decided to head for Cooper's place. It would be a reasonable place for them to go, she figured, given its out of the way location.

Heading for the garage, Arla said, "Sam, I'm only about fifteen minutes away, ok? I'm leaving now. Can you tell me what's going on?"

There was a long, awful silence. A silence long enough that she had made it to the car, backed out of the garage and pulled onto the narrow road before the silence was broken. Arla was about to ask him if he was still there, when he finally spoke up.

"I...I think…" Sam's voice was almost inaudible, but the sheer panic came through loud and clear as he said, "he's…he won't wake up."

And that was the last thing she heard before the line went dead.

* * *

 **uh oh.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi! I fully intended to get this posted this weekend...so much for that lol. Oh well, here it is. :) Special thanks to all of my guest reviewers! Appreciate your thoughtful notes and so glad you are enjoying! :)**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 9: Shining like a lighthouse from the sea**_

Dean hated it. _Hated it_. Hated that waking up face down on the floor was not an uncommon experience in his life. Most people woke up once, maybe twice at best, on the floor. Maybe they fainted, maybe they passed out drunk. Maybe they got socked in the jaw by their screwed in the head brother. Anything could happen, but for most people, it wasn't something that happened very often. He hated that he wasn't surprised to find himself waking up on the floor.

Sorting out what had happened didn't even take him long this time. As ill as he felt, as fuzzy as his mind was, Dean remembered with sickening clarity his dumb move of rushing at Sam when he should have known better.

He deserved the punch.

His left arm was asleep under him and his jaw throbbed as he shifted uncomfortably and started pushing himself upright. The room was silent except for the rolling thunder outside. Dean had no idea how long he'd been out, but from how stiff and sore he felt, he figured he'd been out for more than a couple minutes. And that thought spurred him into action faster than anything else would have. He had no idea what Sam had been up to since he'd been unconscious. Given his recent state of mind in general, Dean figured it probably had been nothing good. He just hoped Sam was still in the room.

Feeling more than a little dizzy, Dean pushed himself to his knees and pressed a hand against his jaw. He was a bit surprised, but very relieved, to see Sam sitting a few feet away, his back against the bed. Wondering if Sam knew what had happened, Dean quickly decided it was probably unlikely. He had a feeling Sam didn't have a clue about much of anything right now.

Sam stared at him, head tilted back against the bed, but he looked semi-conscious at best. Dean felt nausea chewing up his throat as he stumbled to the bed. Sam watched him blankly and even by the time Dean crouched down next to him, there was only the barest hint of awareness in Sam's eyes.

"Dean?" Sam's lips moved but Dean couldn't hear his voice.

"Right here. Stay with me, ok?" Dean urged, sensing that they were rapidly reaching a turning point.

Or maybe they'd already turned the corner. Something was different, something had changed with his brother since Dean had been unconscious. Dean fumbled with shaking fingers until he could feel a pulse. It was racing much too fast for someone who was just sitting there doing nothing. Sam didn't react to his touch and Dean realized his skin was textbook cool and clammy.

 _Shock._

"Sam," Dean said, his head spinning. _Waited too long,_ a terrible voice in his head accused. _Should have taken him to the hospital…_

Now was not the time to panic, though. Now was the time to focus. Dean knew he needed to get Sam lying down. Studying his ashen face, Dean decided it was also time to be completely honest. This was beyond him. It was time to get Sam to medical attention, regardless of the consequences. They could deal with another great escape from a hospital if they had to. He just needed to make sure Sam lived long enough to make the great escape. Searching his pockets for his phone, thankful that Sam's glazed eyes were at least still open and watching him, Dean came up empty.

"Hang on, ok?" Dean said, free hand on Sam's shoulder. Whether his brother even heard him, Dean didn't know.

He cursed when thunder shook the cabin and discovered his cell wasn't in any of his pockets. Of all the times to lose his phone. And he _knew_ he'd had it in his pocket earlier. Although, with the headache pounding, he couldn't be completely certain. Dean decided maybe he should just get Sam flat on the floor first. Casting one final glance around the room, Dean frowned as lightning illuminated the cabin. Against the far wall lay an overturned wastebasket. A scrap of paper and his _phone_ lay near it. Puzzling over it for a moment, Dean looked back at Sam.

He knew he wasn't going to get an answer from his brother, so he put his hand on Sam's shoulder to start to ease him to the floor. Before he could make any other move, though, there was a knock at the door and Dean's heart almost exploded in his chest.

* * *

The door opened abruptly and Arla found herself taking an automatic step backwards. Her eyes widened when she saw Dean. And the gun in his hand. The gun he was pointing at her face; just like Tommy had said might happen. Dean looked worse than the last time she'd seen him, sicker, paler. But what scared her more at the moment was the expression on his face. If she'd met him on the street, she would have run in the other direction as fast as her legs would carry her.

Wild-eyed, Dean Winchester looked exactly like the terrifying murderer the news reports had made him and his brother out to be a few months ago. And, even though she and Tommy knew they _were_ killers, _monster killers_ , they had known better than to believe the news reports that claimed the Winchester brothers were ruthless serial-killers. If they hadn't spent a week with the Winchesters all those years ago, they wouldn't have known not to believe the fantastic news reports. But she'd seen enough of both brothers to know better. There was another explanation for what the news reports called a crime spree and mass murder. And, if they hadn't witnessed the unbelievable and terrifying for themselves all those years ago, they might not have been so willing to believe that monsters existed who could possess you or wear your face. But they'd seen ghosts and ghouls and nightmares come alive in their own town and had been saved by a couple of kids who had nearly lost their own lives trying to protect them. Which was why, right now, Arla Pender took a deep breath and steeled herself to talk down someone who, for all intents and purposes, looked like exactly like a serial killer.

Because she knew he wasn't one.

"Dean?" She said softly. _Gently_. One hand holding the strap of the backpack she had slung over her shoulder, Arla lifted her other hand non-threateningly. Otherwise, she didn't move. Even though the rain was pouring and she was getting wet despite the raincoat, Arla didn't move.

"What are you doing here?" His tone was gruff, his stance defensive and his demeanor completely suspicious. The gun didn't waver.

"I came to help you…"

"How did you find us?" Dean asked, looking past her. His eyes refocused on her and he took a step forward, speaking again before she could reply, "Who are you?"

 _This is worse than I thought,_ Arla thought unhappily. She said, "Dean, it's me. Arla."

"I know who you're supposed to be," he snapped, eyes narrowing. "I want to know who you really are and how you found us."

He seemed to be having trouble focusing, and he was wavering a bit on his feet, but that gun was rock steady, Arla noticed. She said, "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help."

"No one's here to help us."

" _I_ am." She could tell her words weren't getting through to him. Suspicion, anger and a touch of fear were the only things she saw in his eyes. Lowering her hand, Arla tried a different direction, "Dean, Sam called me because he was worried about you."

Dean's eyes widened and he actually took a step backward, turning slightly and taking a quick glance back into the cabin. Arla couldn't see anything, and that concerned her almost as much as Dean's actions. Sam had called her because Dean wouldn't wake up. Obviously he _had_ awakened at some point. And apparently on the very wrong side of the proverbial bed. The question now was, what had happened to him in the first place, and where was _Sam_ now?

"Dean?"

"Stay back!" His turned back to her, voice raised. Lightning split the sky, and illuminated him and the room beyond.

Arla caught a glimpse of a slumped form up against the bed and decided she had no more time to waste. Given Dean's current state, Arla was more than a little afraid that Sam might actually be dead. If he wasn't already, he must be close. Taking a step forward and forcing herself not to flinch as the gun got that much closer, Arla said boldly, "Dean Winchester, we need to go inside right now. You need to get out of the rain and I need to take care of your brother. So move out of my way or so help me I will take that gun out of your hand!"

His eyebrows rose and the suspicious expression faded a bit to utter shock. Dean's mouth fell open, but no words came out.

Arla took another step forward and added, "I haven't been a cop's wife for all these years without learning a few things. And I earned my black belt in Krav Maga a year before I met Tommy so you better believe I can kick your butt, mister."

And then she brushed past him without another second's hesitation or another wasted word. When she crossed the threshold without getting shot, Arla finally drew an easier breath. The sense of victory or relief did not last long at all when she got a good look at Sam. He wasn't dead but, as she'd suspected, he certainly looked close.

"Dean, what happened?" Arla asked, taking one step forward.

She was stopped by a firm hand around her arm that held her in place. Looking back at Dean, Arla realized the momentary stun factor of her bold move had faded and now he had the same exact expression on his face as he had earlier. His eyes seemed a little clearer, though, a little more like he was actually seeing her this time. Arla didn't pull away from him. The grip on her arm relaxed ever so slightly and, as lighting brightened the room again for a brief second, Arla held his gaze.

"Arla?" Dean's voice, ragged and hoarse, held a hint of hope now.

"It's me, Dean." Arla offered a cautious smile.

Dean released her arm and Arla fought the instinct to immediately move away from him. The gun was still in his hand, lowered by his side, but it was still there and, despite her bold words, she really did want to avoid being shot. He looked like he was close to falling over, but as bad as he looked, she knew he could probably put several holes in her on his way down. Remaining where she was, Arla waited, trying to be patient even though she wanted to be triaging both of them...and probably calling for an ambulance.

"How...how did you find us?" Dean repeated his question from earlier.

"Sam called me." Arla said slowly, sensing that he needed short sentences. "He said he couldn't wake you up."

Dean stared at her for a few seconds longer, then the light apparently dawned and his assessing eyes stole a quick glance at his brother. The suspicion and anger disappeared and the only emotion left was fear. The gun lowered. Dean looked back at her and said, "He needs help."

"Will you let me help him?" Arla asked, knowing it was vital she not make a move until she had Dean's full permission. He was still dangerously on edge.

He wanted to say no. She could see it in his eyes. Whatever his hesitation had been yesterday, it was nothing compared to the dread in his eyes right now. Wishing she knew what he was so afraid of, Arla said, "I'm only here to help, Dean. I promise you that."

"Help him." Dean said, shoulders slumping, all the defensiveness gone from his posture and expression. He pulled the door closed behind him, the gun disappeared behind his back and he looked defeated as he said, "Please."

"I will." Arla offered another slight smile before turning around and rushing to Sam's side.

His eyes were closed and he didn't respond when she touched his wrist to check his pulse. _Weak and too fast. Skin chilled, breathing irregular._ His eyes were sunken, darkly shaded and Dean's pallor looked positively healthy compared to how grey Sam's skin looked. She hadn't arrived a minute too soon. _And t_ _wenty-four hours earlier would have been much better_ , she thought regretfully. Her thoughts briefly returned to the very first time she'd met the Winchester brothers. _They're not having any better a time of it now then they were that Christmas_.

Looking up, she found Dean at her side, his worried expression mirroring her own.

Before she could instruct him on what to do, Dean was already wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders and easing him flat on the carpet. Sam didn't respond to the change in position. Arla straightened Sam's legs, then reached in her backpack for the blood pressure cuff. She said, "Get the cushions off the couch. Elevate his legs."

By the time she had the cuff wrapped around Sam's arm, Dean was back and elevating his legs. He had a flashlight with him which was good since that was going to be her next request. Once Dean had finished with the cushions, he held the flashlight where she needed it in order to see the blood pressure cuff. The light shook badly in his hand, but she didn't comment. There were more pressing issues.

Like a blood pressure that was way too low.

"How is it?" Dean asked once she'd taken her stethoscope out of her ears.

"Dean, he's in shock. He needs a hospital right now." Once she'd spoken, Arla realized that Sam might not be the only one who was in shock.

All the color, what little there had been of it, drained from Dean's face as he sat down heavily on the floor next to his brother. He looked like a kid again with the undisguised fear in his eyes. Arla was digging her phone out of her pocket when Dean spoke up.

"Fix him."

Nodding, she said, "We can help him, Dean, but he needs a hospital."

"No hospital."

"Dean…"

"No hospital."

"He _needs_ a hospital." Arla said, then remembered things were more complicated in the Winchester brothers' lives than in most people's. She asked, "Is there a reason we _can't_ take him to a hospital?"

Dean's eyes were on his brother, but he nodded. Without offering a word of explanation, Dean asked hoarsely, "What do you need? What do you need right now to take care of him?"

His question overwhelmed her for a moment as she tried to think of everything she might need. Shaking her head, Arla said, "Dean, this isn't something we can take care of easily. I don't have a car full of medical supplies for a mission trip out there this time! He needs fluids right _now_. And that's just to get started; I don't even know what's wrong with him…"

"Make a list," Dean said, ignoring everything she said. He hadn't taken his eyes off his brother yet.

"A list?" Arla shook her head, gaze going from an unconscious brother to an anxious one. "Dean, please listen to me. He is in _shock_. Sam needs help now. We don't have time to go find supplies; not that you can just run to Walgreens for some IV fluids anyway!"

His expression was unreadable as he finally looked at her and said, "I know someone who can get us whatever we need."

"It will take too long! Sam needs medical attention right now."

"It won't take long," Dean insisted, devastation giving way to iron-clad determination. "If you want to help, make a list."

Sensing any further argument would be useless, Arla nodded. She left her phone in her pocket and said, "Paper?"

"On the table," Dean answered, his eyes back on Sam.

Arla got to her feet and crossed to the table, pulling the blinds open as soon as she was able to. It was still dark in the cabin, but a little better with the blinds open. The table was a mess of grocery bags and a hodgepodge of supplies. She found the standard notepad and cheap pen under one of the bags and said over her shoulder, "Get a blanket over him. We need to keep him warm."

There was movement behind her, but she didn't bother verifying that Dean was doing as she'd told him to; she knew he was. Scribbling notes on the paper, Arla tried to cover the bases and think of all the things that she usually had within arm's reach in the ER. Things that were so standard to a case of shock that usually she didn't even need to think about them. Her hand shook as she wrote. Who was it that Dean knew who could get them these sort of supplies? How could it possibly be faster or easier than simply calling for an ambulance? Why was he so adamant they not go to a hospital?

She didn't like it at all, but Arla knew her options were limited. And there was no time to ask all the questions she wanted to. If Dean said there was a reason they couldn't go to a hospital, she believed him. If he said he knew someone who could get them what they needed, she believed him. Finishing the list, she handed it to him and just hoped he knew what he was doing.

* * *

Dean hoped he knew what he was doing. The way his head felt, he wouldn't have bet money on himself. Ever since he'd heard the knock at the door, it seemed that his heart had been pounding at three times its normal rate. Between the headache, the pain in his jaw and the overall way he felt like utter crap, Dean really wanted to sit down and sleep. But that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

He looked over the list Arla handed him and frowned. He asked, "This is it?"

"It's what we need to get him stabilized." Arla said, "But I don't even know what's wrong with him, Dean, so I don't know what else we might need. You have to give me more information. Is he sick or was he injured? Is there any chance he's bleeding internally?"

Already overwhelmed, Dean felt jittery in the face of Arla's obvious concern. When the doctor looked worried, it was a pretty clear indication of how serious the situation was. Trying to organize his spiraling thoughts, Dean said, "He's been sick. For a long time."

"I need more than that."

"Let me make this call first," Dean said, crossing the room. "Get you what you need to start with and then we can figure out the rest of it."

He snagged his phone off the floor and saw that the piece of paper laying next to it had been the one Arla had given him with her phone number. It helped reassure the endlessly suspicious side of him that was still shouting for him not to trust her. When he'd heard the knock at the door, when he'd opened it to see her standing there, Dean had been almost convinced she was a Leviathan. It had been ridiculous to think such a thing, but he hadn't been able to stop the thought.

Letting her in the door had been a struggle, but something about the way she'd spoken to him, the things she'd said, had shaken some of the mistrust out of him. It had been years since they'd seen each other. Before Leviathans, before Dick Roman, before demons and angels and everything else. Watching her kneel back down beside Sam, Dean realized that Tommy and Arla Pender might be a couple of the only people on the planet that the nightmares of their life had not touched.

And, speaking of nightmares, Dean grimaced in distaste as he dialed a number he hated himself for even having in his contacts list. The phone rang and he took half a step sideways until he could sit on the edge of the bed because he really needed to sit down _now._ He almost made it look like a graceful descent. Not perfectly convincing, he knew, seeing the concern flash in Arla's eyes from where she knelt on the floor next to Sam. Dean looked away, back at the window. He didn't want to see her concern. She didn't need to be worrying about him right now.

He rubbed at his jaw while he waited for an answer on the other end of the line. His whole face smarted and Dean felt incredibly stupid for letting the punch take him down. On a good day, a punch like that wouldn't have even thrown him off balance. But today wasn't even close to a good day and he had to give his brother credit; even sleep-deprived and half-dead, Sam knew how to pack a lot of power into a punch.

All thought about himself vanished the second his call was answered. Mentally cringing at Meg's sickly sweet voice, Dean looked back at Sam for visual confirmation of why he was calling her in the first place.

They didn't have a choice.

"Shut up and listen." Dean didn't bother with a greeting; more interested in cutting _her_ greeting off. "I don't care about what Cas is or isn't doing. I need you to get me some supplies."

Dean felt Arla's curious gaze, but didn't look at her. If he'd felt even a little more steady, he would have left the room to make the phone call. But he wasn't steady; not at all. Of course, there was more to it than that. He wasn't about to leave Sam alone with Arla...or vice versa. Because as much as he was struggling to accept that she was who she said she was and that she meant them no harm, the last thing he wanted was for Sam to wake up and take a swing at her.

Not that it looked like Sam was going to be waking up anytime soon.

He read off Arla's list and asked, "You can get all of that, right?" A bit of tension eased when Meg said she could. He listened to her for a moment longer, then his voice dropped and he growled, "You know what? This _doesn't_ mean that I owe you a favor. Not at all. The only favor you're gonna get, you black eyed..." he broke off, shooting a quick glance at Arla who only raised an eyebrow. Changing what he'd planned to say, Dean went on, "The only favor you get is me not shoving Ruby's blade between your ribs, got it?"

Once he heard the affirmative he was waiting for he told her where to bring the supplies. "And leave them on the porch. One step inside and I will kill you. I see you again without inviting you, I kill you. You hear me?"

"Yeah, Deano," Meg answered, "Hear you loud and clear. You're such a sweet talker."

The line went dead and Dean felt sick. He'd just given a _demon_ their address! For all his threats, he knew that he wasn't up to defending himself against a horde of demons. If Meg wanted his head on a platter and brought friends, he would have literally just signed their own death warrant. He wasn't even sure he could find Ruby's blade. The past few weeks had been filled with confusion, desperation and chaos. Between the search for Dick Roman, dodging Leviathans, trying to do their _job_ , and trying to hold Sam together as the hallucinations worsened almost hourly, Dean wasn't sure where they'd tucked it last. Not even being able to have the Impala and its familiar weapons cache, their organization had been thrown for a loop. Which frustrated him beyond words. If nothing else, they'd always been organized. In their own way, maybe, but they'd always had a system and it worked. But _nothing_ had been working the past year and he found himself rubbing at his chest as the sheer anxiety of it all stabbed through him like that stupid blade he needed to find.

"Dean?" A soft voice interrupted his inner turmoil.

"What?" he asked, looking down at Arla; his heart rate seemed to quadruple. "What's wrong?"

"Calm down. Nothing's changed." Arla settled a little more comfortably on the carpet, one hand resting on Sam's chest. Her voice remained calm, gentle as she said, "While we wait for your friend, why don't you tell me what happened. Why is Sam so sick?"

"He's...he's been through...hell," Dean said, the word sticking like a knife in his throat. Noticing her perceptive gaze, he made a conscious effort to stop rubbing at his chest. His mouth was dry as he tried to figure out what to tell her, _how_ to tell her. Struggling, he said, "He's been sick...for a long time, but...this, this has been really bad the past couple days."

"Ok." Arla nodded, but pressed, "What symptoms? I need to know what's wrong with him if you want me to help him. Especially if you won't let me get him to a hospital."

Dean tightened his grip on the phone and met her eye as he said firmly, "No hospital. He...I can't do that to him right now."

"Alright. So tell me, how has he been sick? The flu? Something like that?"

"No, not exactly. It's a long story. He's...had some problems lately...and he's," Dean swallowed, trying to figure out how to present all of this without coming right out and saying that his brother had basically been out of his mind for the better part of a year. Struggling forward, Dean said, "It's been a long time since he got any sleep. A really long time. He hasn't been eating much. And...the past few days, he hasn't been keeping any water down."

"Is there any chance he's bleeding? I can give him fluids, but, Dean, if there's something else...something deeper...I can't do surgery here."

"I know. He doesn't need surgery. He's got a busted rib, but that's it."

"Give me the flashlight." Arla said sharply, immediately pulling the blanket back. "When did that happen?"

Dean held the flashlight for her and said, "It happened a little over a week ago, I think." He frowned, trying to remember. A week sounded about right. In some ways it felt like a lot longer, in other ways, it seemed like yesterday. Trying to keep his muddled mind on track, Dean nodded, "Yeah, maybe a little over a week ago."

"What happened?" Arla asked as she carefully inspected and palpated Sam's bruised chest and stomach.

"He got hit by a car."

Arla's eyes widened as she briefly glanced up at him. She didn't say anything, though, just put her stethoscope back on and listened to Sam's chest for a few minutes. Straightening, she tugged his shirt down and said, "He sounds ok. And I didn't feel anything out of place. No obvious tenderness or firmness to his abdomen."

"So not bleeding?" Dean asked, the sudden realization hitting him that if he had been wrong about that, Sam could have already been dead.

"Not that I can see. X-rays and some other tests would be better to know for sure," Arla explained, "but from what I can tell, I don't think that's our biggest worry."

Dean let out a heavy sigh of relief and nodded, the flashlight coming to rest on his knee when he realized how badly his hand was shaking.

Arla opened her mouth to say something else, but, for the second time that day, Dean felt his heart explode at a knock on the door. Handing Arla the flashlight, he put a finger to his lips and she nodded her understanding, even if she looked confused. He pulled out his gun, worthless as it would be against a demon, and crossed to the door wishing yet again that he remembered where he'd stashed Ruby's blade. Carefully, he opened the door and the relief washed over him again at the sight that met him on the rain-soaked porch.

A plastic tote sat alone on the porch. A rapid glance revealed there was no one hanging around. Dean almost felt like he should give Meg a thank-you call. _Almost._ Shoving the gun back in his jeans, he grabbed the tote and dragged it into the room. Arla was digging through it before he even had the door closed and locked again.

Dean picked the flashlight back up, but the power flickered on at the same moment. _Something finally goes right,_ he thought, detouring and turning on all the lights in the room. Arla was setting up supplies and Dean went to his brother when he saw his eyes were open.

"Sam?" Dean asked, kneeling next to him and settling his hand on Sam's forehead. He pushed back sweat-damp bangs and asked, "You with me?"

Sam rolled his bleary eyes toward Dean, but didn't respond. After another second, his eyes closed again. Dean hadn't really expected anything more, but it was still disturbing.

"Dean, I need you to move aside," Arla said, turning around, her supplies laid out neatly on the upturned lid of the tote. "I need to get this IV started."

Nodding, Dean shifted, but didn't move aside. Instead, he carefully pulled Sam a bit further away from the bed so there was room on both sides. Arla didn't comment, just rearranged and took up post on Sam's other side. The room fell silent as she worked. Dean half expected Sam to wake up fighting as she started the IV; he kept one hand on Sam's chest just in case. But Sam didn't so much as flinch when Arla inserted the IV.

Dean didn't flinch either.

He passed out cold.

* * *

 **Poor Dean. He isn't having a very good time of it the last two chapters, is he? I left him on the ground again. oops. :) Oh yeah and then there's Sam lol! haha. Well, Arla is there now so they've got nowhere to go but up now right? ...right? hm... we shall have to wait and see...**


	10. Ch10: In my weakness I am strong

**Hi! So this chapter...is like a week late. I had high hopes of actually posting TWO chapters last week! I really did. But life, as it so often does, got in the way at every turn and here I am...many days overdue. Sorry! I promise I never intended to leave poor Dean on the dirty old carpet this long...I really intended to get this chapter out to you last week. Alas! Thank you all for the lovely reviews! They were so encouraging...you have no idea! It was a rough couple of weeks and I kind of just wanted to quit writing but then I'd get another nice note from one of you and I would get back at it. :) Thank you! Hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a bit longer to make up for how long it took to get to you! Ps I was totally listening to Coldplay "Fix You" and "Us Against the World" on endless repeat as I wrote this chapter, and rewrote it, and rewrote it... just so you know my writing soundtrack. ;) Happy Reading!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 10: In my weakness I am strong**_

Arla felt a profound sense of relief when the she saw the flashback of blood in the IV catheter. As dehydrated as Sam was, and as out of practice as she was, it was a miracle she'd managed to sink the IV in one go. She bit her lip in concentration, holding the catheter in place with her left hand as she reached for the clear tegaderm to put over the site. And then her grin faded just like her relief as she watched Dean slump to the floor next to his brother. Sitting there, holding that IV in place and staring in surprise at Dean, Arla knew that she was going to need a vacation from her vacation by the time she'd put the Winchester brothers back together again.

"Dean?" she called, hoping for an answer and receiving none.

Attention returning to the IV which she didn't dare take a chance on losing, Arla carefully secured it then opened up the clamp on the tubing to allow the fluids to begin to flow. She put the bag on the bed; it would do for right now. She jumped in surprise as the television and lights turned off and then back on again. The tv was way too loud in the quiet room, but she had other things to worry about at the moment. The power continued to flicker off and on again over the next few minutes as she assessed Dean. Blood pressure on the low side, pulse on the fast, Arla had a feeling that, while there was obviously something else going on with him, his collapse was likely caused by an adrenaline crash rather than anything more serious.

Dean started to stir about the time the lights came back on again and she finished checking him over. Pressing a hand to his shoulder to keep him down, she asked gently, "Dean?

As expected, he came awake fighting her. But, at the moment at least, she was stronger and able to easily push him back down. "Take it easy. Lay still for a minute. I don't need you passing out on me again. I have enough trouble, don't you think?"

He frowned up at her, struggling for a second before flopping back down wearily. A shaky hand came up to rub at his eyes. "Sorry. I...I don't know what…"

"I do," Arla cut him off. Shaking one finger at him, she said, "You're exhausted and overwhelmed. You stay right there. Do not move a muscle. I need to grab a few things. Do not move."

And he didn't which told her everything she needed to know about the status of her second patient. It worried her. Arla hurried across the room, poking around until she came up with a bottle of water and a sub sandwich in the tiny refrigerator and a half-eaten bag of chips pulled from the mess on the table. All of them gathered into one arm, she snagged the utilitarian floor lamp from the far side of the couch, unplugged it with a quick tug, and dragged it along with her.

Dropping the other items on the bed, Arla took the time to set the improvised IV pole up and hang the fluids from the top. Dean had eased himself up to lean on his elbows by the time she finished. He studied the bag of IV fluids, traced the line down to his brother's arm and then he was looking up at her.

"That gonna help?"

"I certainly hope so."

Dean didn't comment, but pushed himself up until he was able to lean back against the bed. Arla took the cap off the water and handed it to him. He remained silent, but took it and drank a good third of the bottle in the next minute or two. Taking the sandwich and chips off the bed, Arla sat down in front of him and said, "You need to eat."

This time, he met her gaze. "Not hungry."

"So you're not experiencing dehydration and low blood sugar?" Arla raised an eyebrow, meeting his challenge head on.

"No."

"So you fainted at the sight of blood, then?"

"I did not," Dean snapped, setting the bottle down next to him. His expression was angry, but a telltale flush of embarrassment crept up his face.

"Dean. You look like you've had a really bad day," Arla smiled, "The adrenaline and blood sugar crash isn't something to be embarrassed about. Eat the sandwich, will ya? That's all I'm asking right now."

" _Right now_ , the lady says," Dean muttered, but he took the sandwich and unwrapped it.

"Yes, _right now_ that's all I'm asking. I'd rather like to keep at least one of you off the floor."

Dean nodded slowly, taking a bite of the sandwich, his gaze inevitably wandering back to his brother. Arla remained silent. This was her first opportunity to really study him. The chance parking lot encounter had been so brief that there hadn't been much time to gather more than a quick impression. And her initial impression had been accurate. Dean looked terrible. Whether he was sick too or had merely run himself into the ground trying to take care of his brother, she couldn't decide yet. Chances were that it would be a whole new level of challenge to get any straight answers out of him on that topic.

As if sensing her thoughts, he turned back to her and said, "I'm fine. Tired. Apparently hungry. But fine."

There was a hint of a smile on his face as he spoke and Arla could almost see the kid he had once been. Years of hardship she couldn't even imagine weighed on him. He'd aged more than he ever should have in the short six or so years since she'd seen him last.

She asked, "When's the last time you ate anything?"

"Earlier." He waved a dismissive hand as he chewed another bite of the sandwich. "Missed lunch I guess."

"I guess," Arla echoed, following his gaze back to his brother. She had a list of pressing questions, but knew she had to tread carefully. The man before her was so on edge she wasn't sure how he was even still balanced on the precipice.

Dean sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a few seconds, then looking back at her. "I...uh, sorry for," he waved a hand again, "everything earlier. Wasn't...wasn't expecting company."

Arla smiled, "I kind of figured."

"You said Sam called you?"

"Yes. He sounded very upset, wasn't making a lot of sense, but he said he couldn't wake you up."

Dean snorted, hand coming up to rub at his jaw. Noticing for the first time the pale bruising, Arla asked, "What happened to you?"

"He happened to me." Dean tilted his head. The amusement vanished from his eyes and he said, "I caught him off guard."

"He punched you?" Arla asked, trying to put the scattered, confusing pieces together.

"It was an accident. He probably doesn't even know he did it," Dean said, sounding defensive and discouraged at the same time.

Arla didn't want to pry, didn't want to force him or lose footing on the precious bridge of trust they'd barely begun to construct, but there would be no going further if she couldn't get a few more answers. There would be a limit to how helpful she could be if he didn't trust her enough to open up. So she crossed her fingers and hoped for the best.

"Dean, I need more information if I'm going to be able to help you and Sam."

"I know." His response was a whisper. For a long minute, silence fell and Arla hoped he wouldn't shut down. He took a deep breath, sat up straighter and looked at her.

Taking a chance, Arla asked, "What happened to Sam?"

"He saved the world."

* * *

Dean watched Arla silently absorb his statement. It was a weird thing to say without sounding either dramatic or ridiculous. But it was true. And Arla didn't look like she thought he was being dramatic. He knew she couldn't fathom exactly what it meant, and he didn't want her to. Remembering the exact moment when he'd finally, truly lost his brother was making him feel lightheaded again. The hallucinations, the insomnia, the mental breakdown, that had all been a sequel to the main event and Dean struggled to push the image of Stull Cemetery and everything that had happened there out of his mind. There were too many pieces to pick up already.

He really needed a drink.

Arla was still waiting and he knew that, unless he wanted to kick her out of the cabin, he was going to have to tell her something. Tell her at least the minimum necessary details that would ensure her ability to help him get Sam back on his feet. And, even though he remembered her unwavering support, her unquestioning devotion to taking care of them both that Christmas so many lifetimes ago, Dean knew he couldn't trust her like he had back then. Didn't want to trust her. He couldn't take that chance again. The last outsider he'd trusted had betrayed him.

 _Cas,_ Dean pressed his fingers to his eyes as he thought about the fact he'd just left him in the hospital without a second glance back. The weight of the guilt he felt at his _own_ betrayal of one of the closest friends they'd ever had pressed down on him. Shaking his head, Dean forced himself to focus on the present. Cas was beyond his help. He needed to focus on Sam.

Lowering his hand, Dean looked back at Arla. Trying to formulate an explanation that somehow encapsulated a colossal train wreck four years in the making, Dean said hesitantly, _inadequately_ , "He went through some stuff."

"Bad stuff," Arla said softly, reading between the lines.

"Bad doesn't even begin to cover it. The past few years have been hard on him. And a few months ago...it got a whole lot worse," Dean stared at Sam, wishing he would just wake up and be fine so he didn't have to keep talking about him like this. Shaking his head, Dean went on, "Because of the stuff he went through...he's been struggling to know what's real and what isn't."

Arla's expression was open, concerned. Not a hint of judgement or distaste. She asked, "Hallucinations?"

"Yes."

"That's why he hit you?"

"Yes," Dean said, then shook his head, "No. Not exactly. He's not hallucinating anymore. I mean...he's still having some trouble with telling the difference, but I think it's more because he's so tired and feels like crap. A friend," he choked on the word, feeling a rush of emotion that he couldn't quite categorize, "fixed him a couple days ago."

At that, Arla frowned. "What do you mean 'fixed him'?"

"Long story. This friend, he...uh...he has some special abilities and he...well, you could say he took the crazy," Dean shrugged, wishing he could get past the subject of Castiel.

Considering how grateful he was to the angel for saving Sam's mind and life, the anger ran hot and steady just under the surface of that appreciation. Cas had been the one to break Sam's mind in the first place. Fisting his hands, he forced himself to go on.

"Sam's been running on no sleep for over a week and almost no sleep for months before that," Dean explained, "And the hallucinations...they...he hasn't had much of an appetite lately because of the things he's been seeing."

"The fluids will help with the dehydration," Arla said, "but, with everything you're telling me now, Dean, this still may be beyond what I can do here with a couple bags of saline. He may need other medications, other treatments…"

"He just needs to get to the point where he can eat, drink and sleep again," Dean cut her off. "The first night after we left the hospital, he slept like twelve hours straight, but he's been running a fever and feeling so lousy that he hasn't really slept since."

Arla's voice softened as she asked, "Hospital?"

Wishing he hadn't brought that up, Dean nodded. "Remember I said he got hit by a car? Well, that was the night it all went wrong." _And oh how it had gone so wrong!_ Thinking back to that night gave him chills even now. "He couldn't take it anymore, couldn't figure out which way was up, what was happening, so he took off. Maybe the dev…" Dean stopped himself short and rephrased, "maybe the stuff in his head told him to go, I don't know. I just know he was gone in five minutes flat and I looked for him all night. He'd been hit by a damned car and taken to a psych hospital by the time I got the call. They said he'd had a full psychotic breakdown."

Arla shook her head, "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Dean snapped at her, too keyed up to even regret it. Sam didn't need her pity and he didn't want to hear it either. "He's _fine_!"

The room fell uncomfortably silent. Even outside the cabin, the storm seemed to be abating somewhat and not even a clap of thunder distracted from his outburst. Dean squeezed his eyes closed, rubbing a closed fist at his chest as the pain spiked. His stomach was turning and he realized that puking up the sandwich in front of Arla was a very real possibility. Controlling his breathing and fighting down the nausea, Dean looked back at her, wondering how long it would be before she decided he was insane and not worth the trouble.

"He may have an infection, Dean," Arla said, not addressing his outburst. "It could simply be the dehydration that's causing the fever, or it could be something else. I'd need to run blood tests to be sure. He may need antibiotics, other medications. Things I don't have."

"Whatever you need, we can get," Dean said, not caring if he had to call Meg back for more supplies. He was about to ask for another list when he heard his name whispered in a broken voice. Scooting a pinch closer, he rested his hand on Sam's arm. "Hey, you wakin' up?"

Sam groaned. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he looked uncomfortable as he shifted ever so slightly where he lay. He stopped moving after a few seconds and asked, "You ok?"

"Yeah, Sam," Dean sighed, settling back against the bed. "I'm good."

"You were on the floor."

"And now you are. Gettin' ridiculous, don't you think?"

"Couldn't wake you up…"

"Well I'm awake."

"Was worried 'bout you."

"Little more worried about you right now. Wanna get your eyes open? Join the party?"

"Don't feel like a party right now."

Dean patted his arm. "Ok, no party. I'll tell the clowns to pack up and take their balloons with them."

The brief smile he received told Dean that he hadn't crossed the line with the clown crack. It had come out of his mouth before he'd taken the time to consider that it might have been a very dangerous thing to say right now. Apparently, as out of it as he looked, Sam was at least sharing reality with him. _For now, anyway_.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam asked sluggishly, tilting his head and opening his eyes for the first time since he'd awakened.

"Nothing's wrong with me."

"You were on the floor," Sam repeated slowly like Dean was an idiot. But he looked uncertain as he asked, "Weren't you?"

Dean wanted to lie. Figured it would be easy enough to do. But he couldn't. Sam had enough trouble remembering what was real and what wasn't without adding lies to his confusion. With a quick glance at Arla who had remained silent so far, Dean looked back at Sam and nodded. "I was. It wasn't a big deal."

Sam stared at him intently, then closed his eyes again and asked, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why were you on the floor?"

"I tripped," Dean said, deciding, in this case, that a lie was permissible. Sacrificing this truth to keep his brother from feeling bad about punching him felt like the lesser of two evils.

For several seconds, it looked like Sam wasn't going to buy it. He stared at him like he knew he was lying, but seemed to give up. Back to shifting uncomfortably, Sam said, "Head hurts."

Dean nodded, reaching up on the bed for a pillow. "This'll help."

Once his head was settled on the pillow, Sam did seem to relax a bit more and Dean thought he was going to fall asleep, but instead he forced his eyes open again and asked, "Did you hear someone else talking?"

"Right now?" Dean asked, hoping Sam was going to say no. Because the tv was only playing music at the moment and if he was hearing someone else talking right now…

"No. Earlier," Sam clarified, worry written all over his face. "You didn't hear it?"

Realizing what he meant, Dean smiled. "Yeah, I heard it. Arla and I were talking…"

"Who?"

"Arla," Dean said, not overly worried that Sam didn't immediately know who he was talking about. "Arla Pender. You called her, remember?"

"No," Sam said, shifting again. He caught sight of the lamp and fell silent, spending a few seconds puzzling over that before lifting his arm and studying the IV. Resting his arm back on his chest, he looked at Dean and asked, "Is that really there?"

Taking a deep breath, Dean hated the doubt he heard, but nodded, "It's really there."

Sam frowned, looking back at the IV for a really long time before returning his gaze to Dean and asking in a completely flabbergasted tone, "How'd it get there?"

Dean almost laughed. He glanced up at Arla, then smiled and said, "Our fairy godmother."

"Don't have one, remember?" Sam muttered, rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead.

"I was wrong," Dean said. He motioned for Arla to move over into Sam's line of vision and added, "Arla's here."

Sam's expression was uncertain, but he followed Dean's gaze to the right. Arla gave him a smile and a soft hello, but Sam flinched like she'd slapped him. He turned his head back toward Dean and whispered, "Are you sure?"

Dean should have, but really hadn't, expected this reaction. Putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, he squeezed and said as confidently as possible, "I'm sure."

"She's... _real_?"

"Yes."

Sam inched closer to him and chanced another brief glance at Arla, before closing his eyes and asking, "How can you be sure?"

"Sam. She's real, ok? Trust me. You called her and she came to help," Dean said, frustration bubbling up. "Snap out of it."

"Dean," Arla said softly.

Meeting her gaze, Dean tried to rein in his anger and even out his breathing. Him coming unglued was not going to help anything. Returning his attention to his brother, Dean saw that Sam wasn't looking at him anymore.

"Arla?" Sam asked, expression wary as he studied her.

She smiled again and said gently, "Hi, Sam."

If he hadn't watched it with his own eyes, Dean wouldn't have believed the immediate change. The tension drained out of Sam in a heartbeat and he smiled brighter than Dean had seen in weeks. All he said was a very quiet _hi_ in return, but Dean saw him visibly pulling himself together and that, in and of itself, was encouraging.

Now that contact had been made, Arla pressed on carefully. She asked, "How are you feeling?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder and the smile faded, but he remained calm. He said, "Tired."

"I'm sure. Sounds like you haven't been getting much sleep lately."

Dean gave him another gentle squeeze on the shoulder when Sam looked at him with a hint of betrayal in his eyes. Wanting to reassure him that he hadn't blabbed all the gory details, Dean said, "I told her you've been pretty worn out the past few weeks."

Clearly reading between the lines and knowing Dean had been careful with what he'd told her, Sam nodded, looking relieved.

Arla waited until Sam was looking back at her before she said, "I think we could try to get you off the floor if you feel like you could sit up. We'll take it one step at a time. Let me check your blood pressure first, though."

Sam nodded, but when she touched his arm, he pulled away.

"Sam, it's ok," Dean said, giving his shoulder a gentle shake and noting with relief that his contact hadn't been an issue.

Nodding and sucking in a shaky breath, Sam relaxed and said, "Sorry."

"It's ok. You gonna be ok with this?"

"Yeah. I'm good," Sam said, offering his arm to Arla.

"It won't take long," Arla said as she wrapped the cuff around his arm. Her movements were gentle and slow as she worked. Finishing up, she looked at Dean. "Better than earlier."

"Good," Dean said, breathing a sigh of relief. He eased the cushions out from under Sam's legs. "Let's get you off the floor."

"Love that plan," Sam said, starting to move, but not getting far.

"Hang on a second. You're a little heavy and I didn't exactly eat my Wheaties this morning, so let's take this slow." Dean smiled when Sam gave him a quick smile of his own, then closed his eyes. Nodding at Arla, Dean said to Sam, "Let us do the lifting, you just try to stay with us, deal?"

"Mmhmm," Sam acknowledged, but didn't open his eyes again. Whether he was just too tired to bother, or whether he was trying to stay calm, Dean didn't know and didn't care. So long as it worked, he wasn't going to be picky.

Working together, he and Arla got Sam sitting up easily enough; even if he was mostly dead weight against Dean's side. Wrapping his right arm around Sam's shoulders, Dean held him steady while Arla made sure the IV was still intact. Looking down, Dean asked, "You still awake?"

"Yeah," Sam said, lifting his head briefly.

"Doin' alright?"

"Yeah."

Arla said, "I'd like to see you drink a little while you're sitting up. Do you think you could try?"

Sam nodded, and this time he actually managed to keep his head up and open his eyes.

Arla headed over to the table and returned with a bottle of water. Sam reached for it and she let him take it. Holding his breath, Dean was pleased when Sam managed the bottle with a steadier hand than he'd had in the past two days. Arla took it from him when he lowered his hand. She said, "How are you doing sitting up?"

"Ok," Sam looked up at the bed with a smile and added, "Kind of want to lay down again."

Dean shifted to a crouch and said, "Two minutes tops and you're in bed."

"Can't wait," Sam mumbled, doing his best to help as they pulled him to his feet.

The change in altitude didn't do him any favors, not that it did _Dean_ any either, but obviously the fluids were working their miracle because Sam didn't pass out. It took less than the promised two minutes before he was settling back against the mattress with a contented sigh. Dean almost laughed at the sight. Sam was sprawled out, arms outstretched, head flat on the mattress and out like a light.

Feeling a tap on his arm, he smiled as Arla handed him the pillow. He slid it under Sam's head and tugged the blankets over him. Once he'd done that, he stepped out of the way so Arla could pull the lamp closer to the bed and make sure the IV line wasn't tangled. After that, everything sort of faded into the background as he stood there watching his brother sleep.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" He turned slightly, eyes still on his brother.

"Come sit down," Arla said softly, touching his arm. "Let him sleep."

Nodding, Dean turned to her, realizing he must have been standing there a lot longer than he'd realized. The cushions were back on the couch, the leftovers of his lunch were lined up on the neatly organized table. Trash had been picked up, the lights turned down and the tv turned off. Registering the silence for the first time, Dean brushed past her and flipped the tv back on, although he kept the volume a bit lower than it had been earlier.

Arla looked at him curiously and Dean said simply, "Background noise helps."

She didn't ask for more details and he didn't offer her any. He dropped to the couch and ran both hands over his face, wishing the motion would help rub away the fog in his head and the burning in his eyes. It didn't accomplish anything except make him realize how tired he was and how much he wanted to take a shower.

"How are you doing?" Arla asked, sitting at the other end of the couch.

"Great."

"Great just like your brother over there, huh?" Arla shot him a significant glance. She said, "How about you 'fess up and tell me what's going on with you."

Dean shook his head, "Nothing's going on with me except for being tired."

"So take a nap. Stretch out there and get some sleep."

Beginning to protest, Dean found himself cut off by his own yawn. He saw Arla's knowing look and knew he was busted. She said, "I'm not asking you to sleep for a month. I'm just asking you to get a little rest while Sam's doing the same thing. I don't need my fancy medical degree to know you're both just plain wiped out. Humor me."

Dean folded his arms across his chest, partly in protest, partly in an attempt to ease the pain in his gut. Maybe if he asked nicely she'd hand him a beer because he was way too keyed up to even attempt to sleep without a little help. Before he could ask, though, he closed his eyes for a second...and fell asleep a second later.

* * *

Sam woke up with several pressing issues. While he sort of remembered where he was and had a vague memory of what had been going on, the same level of foggy disorientation plagued him as before and he wasn't 100% sure of anything. Anything other than the pain in his head. That he _was_ 100% sure of. That, and the fact he really needed to get to the bathroom. Forcing his eyes open, he stared up at the ceiling and tried to pull himself together.

Nothing was clear, but he did remember Arla being around at some point. He saw the lamp with the nearly empty bag of IV fluid hanging from it, knowing that was the reason he was desperate for the bathroom. _Not dehydrated anymore_ , he thought without amusement. Because he felt just shitty enough not to be amused by anything at the moment.

The room was dimly lit and he could hear the tv on and the rain falling outside, but otherwise it was quiet. Starting to push himself to a sitting position, Sam felt the anxiety began to reassert itself with every second that passed without comment or intervention from his brother.

 _Where is he?_

"Sam?" A quiet voice asked just as he managed to sit up on the edge of the bed. "Are you alright?"

He squinted against the pain and blurriness as Arla came into view. Instead of answering her, he asked, "Where's Dean?"

"Sleeping," Arla said immediately, pointing over at the couch. "You've both been sleeping for the past couple of hours."

Seeing Dean sitting there, sound asleep on the couch, did help ease his worry. Not completely, because he remembered that Dean wasn't exactly doing well lately. But that was something to consider at another time. Right now, he really needed to get to the bathroom. Staring at his arm, Sam saw the IV and, even though he knew what it was and why it was there, the sight of it turned his stomach.

"Take this out," he said, or rather whispered. Although he'd meant to speak in a normal tone of voice, his voice was evidently as worn out as the rest of him was.

Arla stepped closer and he could see the hesitation in her eyes as she said, "It would be better if…"

"Take it out," Sam repeated, staring back at the IV, his fingers itching just to rip it out. Trying not to panic, he said, "I need you to take it out or I will."

"Alright. Let me get a piece of gauze or a bandaid," Arla said, turning away.

Less than ten seconds after she'd walked away, he found himself staring at a thin line of blood on his arm; the IV fluid dripping onto the floor. The IV had come out easily enough. Sam watched the blood slowly run down his skin as all kinds of unwanted memories flooded his mind.

"Sam!" Arla said a second later. She knelt in front of him, pressing a square of gauze against his arm, her eyes bright with worry as she looked up at him.

Shaking his head, he couldn't find the right words to tell her he was fine, tell her he was sorry. She silently smoothed a piece of tape over the gauze but didn't release his arm. Sam pulled away; the contact was too much. He avoided her gaze and pushed himself to his feet. The room, predictably, got a bit dark around the edges and he felt dizzy and unsteady, but he stayed on his feet. Arla's hands were on his arms, not restraining, just trying to offer support. Whatever she was saying was drowned out by the pounding of his own heart in his ears and he pushed past her toward the bathroom.

Closing the door behind him, he took a steadying breath. There was no pounding on the door, no more voices or hands or memories. He was thankful for the skylight that made it possible to see well enough that he didn't have to turn the lights on because he was pretty sure his head would implode if it were any brighter. By the time he finished and had washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face, he was ready to fall over. Shakily, he sat down in front of the tub, leaning his back against it and resting his head on the wall to his left.

The bed and a pillow would have been preferable, but he had no interest in leaving the relative sanctuary of the bathroom for the time being. Arla's presence was confusing and overwhelming. He couldn't think of a reason why he should be avoiding her, but that was exactly what he was doing. Touching the taped piece of gauze, Sam knew she deserved his thanks. But right now he needed to be left alone.

Needed to think. To sort out the knots that had formed in his brain. To spend a minute or two trying to come to terms with living for half a year without being sure what was real and what wasn't. Flashes of hunts, of investigations, of people and places he couldn't quite remember tormented him.

Magicians. Egyptian gods. Feuding witches. Leviathans. Dick Roman.

Bobby.

And always, over everything else, the persistent image of the devil's face taunting him.

 _He's gone. It's over,_ Sam told himself over and over. And even though he did feel different, felt alone in his own head again,Sam wasn't sure it would ever be over. He felt wrong. It was different from how he'd felt when Cas had first destroyed the wall. The pieces of his mind had fallen like shards of glass all around him, too many to count. But he was supposed to feel better now, wasn't he? He wasn't hallucinating, wasn't hearing voices. Cas had fixed him.

So why did he still feel so broken?

* * *

"How long's he been in there?" Dean asked, sensing Arla's barely disguised worry.

He yawned and sat up a bit more, trying to gauge how serious the situation was. He'd awakened a few minutes ago to the sight of Arla pacing the room. She was making him dizzy with her circling and her worry was making him nervous even if he felt too sleep-drugged to react. His hands were trembling and he pressed them against the couch cushions to hide it. Looking longingly at the refrigerator, Dean licked his lips.

 _Need a drink,_ he thought, wondering if he could go grab a beer then deal with whatever had Arla so worried. Dean looked back at her and ran one shaking hand across his mouth. _Need to brush my teeth too._ Grimacing, he felt Bobby's flask in his shirt pocket, tucked there so close and yet so far. Because it was empty. He'd finished it off somewhere during the night. Shaking his head against the distractions, Dean looked up as Arla stopped her pacing and stood in front of him.

"He's been in there almost half an hour now," Arla said, checking her watch. "I tried to talk to him again a few minutes ago and he still wouldn't answer me. I didn't hear him fall. But he might have passed out..."

"He didn't pass out." Dean pushed himself wearily to his feet, feeling about a hundred years old as he did so.

Arla stopped pacing and asked, "How could you know that?"

"Well, ok. I don't. He _might_ have passed out," Dean admitted with a rueful smile. "But I doubt that's what happened."

"So what then? He's just sitting in there because it's more comfortable than the bed?"

"He's just sitting in there because it's more _private_ than anywhere else." Dean shook his head, confident he knew what was going on. "He's sitting in there stewing about everything because, thanks to you, he finally feels well enough _to_ stew about everything."

Arla smiled faintly. "Well I'm not sorry that he's feeling better."

"Neither am I. Give us a minute, ok?"

"Absolutely," Arla nodded. She hesitated for a moment, then offered, "I'll go outside how's that? Just give me a holler."

"Thanks," Dean said, watching the front door close softly behind her.

He took a few calming breaths, and wished he felt better than he actually did. The pain in his stomach and chest were still nagging at him, but had faded a bit. The nap probably had been a good idea. But it hasn't been enough. Not enough for him to be ready to deal with whatever was going on with Sam. He dug around in his gear for the bottle of Jack Daniels and opened it up with a shaking hand. Knocking back a few generous medicinal swallows, Dean recapped it and hoped he had enough liquid courage to handle Sam.

Dean knocked softly on the bathroom door. As expected, silence was the only response. Leaning his shoulder against the door, he knocked again. "It's me."

There was still no response and although he was sure Sam was just sitting in there moping, the thought that he actually _might_ have passed out was enough motivation for Dean to ignore a closed door. A little surprised to find the door unlocked, Dean pushed it open. The skylight let in enough illumination for him to see Sam sitting with his back against the tub, leaning sideways with his head resting against the wall. He glanced up and looked so tired that Dean honestly had no idea how he was managing to stay awake at all anymore.

He also looked like he was hurting. Hurting in ways that went far beyond the physical injuries. They'd dealt with plenty of broken bones, bruises, and concussions over the years. Unpleasant, but not insurmountable. While he didn't want Sam to be in pain, Dean would have gladly chosen the broken rib, concussion and every other ache and pain that went along with being hit by a car over the mental anguish he didn't need to be a mind-reader to know Sam was currently working through.

"Sam?" Dean asked softly, leaning a hip against the counter.

"Yeah?" His voice was broken and almost inaudible.

"What're you doin, man?" Dean asked, shaking his head, "Why're you sitting in here?"

Sam shifted and rested his elbows on his knees, pressing his hands against his head as he closed his eyes and whispered, "Needed to think."

"Not sure you should be trying to think right now, Sam. You're too tired." Dean waited for a reply. When he didn't get one, he asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"Can't be sure."

"Sure of what?"

"Can't be sure it's over."

And, more than the words themselves, the raw desperation he heard had Dean crossing the small space and crouching down until he was at eye level with his brother. He gripped Sam's shoulders, but refrained from shaking him the way he instinctively wanted to because he knew Sam's head was still pounding. Instead, he squeezed his shoulders and waited until Sam looked at him before he spoke.

"It's over. You hearin' me?" And _damn_ but that was desperation in _his_ voice now too. Dean shook his head again, holding Sam's gaze as he kept his voice low and even and forceful as he went on, "You're fine. You're better. Cas got rid of it all right? No more devil in your head, _right_?"

Sam nodded shakily and it looked like he was only doing it because he knew that's what was expected. _Not good enough!_ Could they have been wrong? Cas _had_ fixed him, hadn't he? Shouldn't he be better by now? This time Dean _did_ shake him as he said, "Tell me he's gone, Sam!"

"He's gone!" Sam insisted, squeezing his eyes closed, his hands still pressing against his head. His voice was almost nothing as he whispered, "He's gone. I swear…"

Dean's chest felt tight as, for the first time, he truly stopped to consider the fact that maybe it wasn't that simple. Maybe the devil _was_ gone. The hallucinations, the neverending voice in Sam's head. The nightmare of the past few months. Maybe all of that was gone, but maybe that wasn't enough. When they'd first walked out of the hospital, he'd been exultant at the thought that maybe everything was going to get back to normal; that Cas had taken care of everything and all Sam needed was to catch up on some sleep. That simplistic hope came back to mock him now as he found himself confronted by the fact that this was going to take a lot more than catching up on some much needed sleep to fix.

Dean's hands dropped from Sam's shoulders and he slumped against the wall. He took a few ragged breaths, then said with confidence he didn't feel, "We're gonna get through this."

It took a minute, but Sam lowered his hands and tilted his head back against the wall. Dean didn't like the dull flush of pink he saw on Sam's otherwise pale face. He wasn't sure _either_ of them could make it through another night like the last one.

Sam stared at him silently for a few seconds, then said, "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"You wanna know?" Dean asked, with a sudden smile; stupidly eager to ignore the reality of the situation. "Because I have a list. Been keeping that list since the day Mom and Dad brought you home from the hospital."

Sam snorted and a little of the tension in his muscles eased. Dean's grin widened, and he knew the alcohol was kicking in because he felt slightly giddy. But whatever. He was on the right track and he wasn't quitting while he was ahead.

"You were freakin' adorable at first. Mom said you were perfect even after you spit up all over Dad which, by the way, was hilarious. But then you kept us up all night. I'm not sure which of the four of us was crying the most by morning. I begged Mom to send you back to wherever you'd come from."

Sam had a hint of a smile on his face as he whispered, "No you didn't."

Dean didn't have to tell Sam he was right. They both knew it. Dean smiled too, thinking back. Seeing something so tiny so upset had broken his four year old heart. He hadn't wanted Mom to return the tiny screaming thing that was his brother.

He'd wanted her to fix him.

Not much had changed in all those years.

He still wanted to fix him.

Letting Death shove his brother's soul back into him had seemed like the only way to fix Sam. But now, Dean wasn't sure if it had fixed him so much as it seemed to have broken him. Shaking his head, the bit of levity faded and Dean said softly, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For everything."

"Yeah. Me too," Sam said with a heavy sigh, rubbing his forehead.

"You want some Tylenol?"

"Yeah. I hurt everywhere." Sam swallowed hard.

Dean nodded sympathetically. He pushed himself to his knees. "So let's get you off the floor and doped up. Deal?"

Sam frowned, hesitant.

"What?" Dean asked, then saw Sam's gaze go beyond him to the open door. Understanding dawning, Dean said, "She's outside."

"Is she leaving?" Sam looked back up at him.

"Do you want her to?" Dean asked quietly; an unspoken promise to back up his choice either way. Despite his own misgivings, Dean had a feeling they needed Arla's expertise. But if Sam wanted her to go, she'd go and they'd figure out the rest on their own. Like they always did.

Not unexpectedly, Sam said, "Yes."

Dean nodded, already trying to figure out how he was going to tell her politely to leave, when Sam spoke up again.

"But...I think...maybe we need her help." It took another minute of silence before Sam met his eyes again and admitted, "I really don't feel so great, Dean."

"I know you don't," Dean leaned forward and put his hand behind Sam's neck, feeling the unnatural heat of fever. He held his gaze and said, "Let's get out of here and talk to her, ok? You're sick, Sammy. How 'bout we let the doctor do what she's itching to do?"

Sam nodded with a brief smile.

Dean returned the smile, pushed himself to his feet and extended a hand. Pulling Sam up nearly took both of them down, but they managed to get out of the bathroom without either of them ending up back on the floor. Once Sam was settled on the couch, Dean straightened. "Ok if I have her come back inside?"

Sam nodded, head resting on the back of the couch. He smiled faintly and said, "Our own fairy godmother."

"Yeah. Who'd've thought?" Dean grinned. "You know what this means right?"

"Singing mice?"

"Happy ending."

"You really believe that?" Sam's voice was so quiet Dean almost missed it as he took a step toward the front door.

"Yes." _Not even a little._

"Yeah," Sam whispered, "me neither."

* * *

 **There! No one on the floor this time! :D And I already have a good start on the next chapter.**

 **PS credit goes to Hacked It Out and Fell for the line about Arla needing a vacation from her vacation. :)**


	11. Ch 11: Face Down in the Desert

**Hiya! Thx for your patience! I know this chapter was a long time coming. Hope you will enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 11: Face Down in the Desert**_

For a moment, right after she'd walked out of the cabin, Arla had stared at the door and considered the fact she might have made a mistake. Perhaps offering to leave the cabin hadn't been her wisest move; she had a nervous feeling that she might never actually be invited back. But she'd sensed Dean's unspoken need for privacy. So she'd retreated.

Stepping away from the door, she moved closer to the window. Peering through a very tiny crack between the curtains, Arla felt that her peeping was justified in this case. The bathroom door was open and she could see Dean leaning against the counter.

She knew that her help was needed despite the fact both boys seemed almost dead-set against accepting it. It was a minor miracle that Sam had called her in the first place. She didn't understand all the reasons for their wariness of course, but she knew enough about them to know that whatever they'd been through, it had been at least ten times worse than they'd ever admit to and probably a hundred times worse than anything she could ever imagine.

It gave her the chills just thinking about it. All she wanted was to do everything she could to make it better, to get them both well, but she knew they were dangerously on edge. They didn't want her help, not really. It had been an act of utter desperation that had even pushed them into accepting what little help they'd taken so far.

She watched Dean step further into the bathroom, then she lost sight of him. Chewing her lip, the thought that he might have fallen crossed her mind. Pulling her phone out, she glanced at the time and decided to give them five minutes. If they didn't come get her by then, she was going in whether they liked it or not. While she waited, she decided to make a quick phone call.

Tommy picked up after two rings and asked, "So. Which one was it?"

Frowning, Arla thought that was a weird way for him to start a conversation. She said, "Hello to you too. What on earth are you talking about?"

"Which one of the boys put the gun in your face when they opened the door?"

Remembering his conversation earlier, Arla rolled her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You found them." It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"I found them."

"I never doubted that you would. So. Met you at the door with a gun, right?"

"Yes."

"Dean?"

"Yes."

"He let you in?"

"Eventually. He wasn't thrilled to see me."

"Did you bring him any food? He probably would've welcomed you with open arms if you brought him food."

Smiling sadly, Arla peeked through the crack again and said, "I don't think food would've helped anything."

"How'd you find them?"

"Sam called me." Arla quickly caught Tommy up on everything that had happened preceding her exile to the front porch. "And now I'm just waiting to see if Dean's gonna let me back in."

"He will."

"I'm not so sure." Arla glanced at her watch, then back at the closed door. "They've been through so much, Tommy. I'm worried I can't help them."

"Of course you can help them…"

"Only if they _allow_ me. And I'm worried they won't..."

"Dean let you in the door. He could have turned you away, but he didn't. Right now, they just need time to themselves to regroup. They're going to be fine," Tommy said confidently. "Listen, I got an earlier flight and…"

"I don't want you to have to do that..."

"I already got the flight. It's done."

"Tommy…"

"It's something I want to do. The sessions are over for today and I can skip the closing panel tomorrow. Zane can catch me up if there's anything I'm missing. Besides, I'm sick of the conference food. I can practically taste your pie."

Arla felt tears prick her eyes. She knew that if she hadn't run into the Winchesters, Tommy would probably not be leaving the conference early. But she needed him so badly right now that she wasn't going to argue with him about it. She whispered, "I'm not going to be disappointed to see you a little sooner."

"I knew you were kind of fond of me."

"I'm kind of fond of you alright, you crazy man."

"You're gonna try to bring them home aren't you?" Tommy asked knowingly. He added, "Just remember, they aren't puppies. You can't keep them."

Laughing, she said, "Somehow I don't think Dean would appreciate being compared to a puppy. Text me with your flight details and I'll talk to you when I can, ok?"

"Ok, babe. Go work your magic and I'll see you later tonight. Love you."

"I love you too." Arla smiled as she put her phone back in her pocket.

As usual a quick chat with Tommy left her feeling a thousand times better. Taking a deep breath, Arla checked her watch.

They had one minute left.

* * *

Sam watched Dean cross the room and open the door to invite Arla back into the cabin. He wanted to tell Dean that he was fine, that he just wanted to be left alone to sleep. But he didn't say anything. For one thing, he'd stupidly admitted to his brother that he didn't feel great and Dean wasn't going to be quick to forget that. For another thing, he knew that, whether Dean would ever admit it or not, _he_ was sick too. If Arla was around, Sam knew she would pick up on it, if she hadn't already, and boss Dean into taking care of himself. Because he sure wasn't up to bossing Dean into anything at the moment.

"You boys doing ok?" Arla's voice was soft as she closed the door behind her.

"More or less." Dean snorted.

Closing his eyes, Sam wished he could drift off to sleep. But between the headache and the overall stress, sleep didn't seem likely. Sam heard a quiet discussion between his brother and Arla, but wasn't focused enough to pay attention to what was going on until he heard footsteps coming his way.

"Sam."

Opening his eyes at the sound of Dean's voice, Sam saw him holding out a bottle of Gatorade. He wanted to say no, all he thought he could stomach right now was water, but he was just thirsty enough to reach for the bottle anyway. The cap was already off and he managed to take a drink without pouring any of it down his t-shirt. Content with that small victory, Sam lowered the bottle to rest on the couch next to him, closed his eyes and let his head rest on the back of the couch again.

"No you don't," Dean said sharply; his hand on Sam's shoulder, giving a gentle shake. "Stay awake. Here."

Sam lifted his head and blinked, trying to focus on what Dean was handing him. Three tiny pills were dropped into his open palm. Painkillers. His eyes were too blurry to figure out if they were Tylenol or Ibuprofen. In the end, it didn't matter. They wound up flung across the room.

"What the hell, man!" Dean stepped into his vision, a confused frown on his face. "Thought you had a headache."

He did. Oh, how he did. He stared at Dean, trying to form words, trying to explain, but nothing came out of his mouth. Sam looked back at his hand, remembering the weight of those tiny little pills. _All those tiny little pills_. Endless tiny little pills. Dean was talking to him again, but Sam couldn't hear what he was saying; he sounded like he was miles away and underwater. So he just stared at his hand and thought about the pills.

He shouldn't have taken them. Shouldn't have taken them. But they'd said the pills would help, would make him better. They hadn't though.

 _Nothing's going to make you better._

Sam shivered at the memory of _his_ voice. _If it was just a memory..._ Shaking his head, he clenched his open hand into a fist. _It's not real._

"Sam? Hey, come on, snap out of it!"

Dean's voice sounded so real that Sam felt tears in his eyes. Too tired to hold his head up any longer, he let it drop against the back of the couch. He didn't feel right; not at all. His heart was pounding too fast and the pain in his head was blinding. Closing his eyes, he tried to regroup; to gather his thoughts.

"Sam?" His brother's tone indicated it hadn't been the first time he'd said it.

The bottle of Gatorade grew heavy in his hand and he realized how badly he was shaking when he felt a steady hand close over his and ease the bottle out of his grip.

Voices floated over and around him but he didn't hear words, couldn't understand what they were asking him, what they were telling him to do. He found himself laying flat on his back on the couch looking up at concerned faces above him without knowing how he'd ended up laying down. It was difficult to keep his eyes open and when a cool cloth settled against his forehead, he gave up trying. Too uncomfortable to do anything else, he just lay there feeling utterly miserable and slowly tuning in to the conversation around him. Dean was talking too fast, his words running together too quickly for Sam to be able to figure out what he was saying, but his anxiety came through loud and clear.

"Just let me check his blood pressure again," Arla said softly; her voice coming in steady and clear through the haze of everything else. "Give me a minute, Dean."

Sam felt the cuff around his arm and broke out in a cold sweat at the constriction and pressure on his arm. Biting his lip, Sam forced himself to remain calm and not pull away. _She's just checking my blood pressure, that's all. Nothing else_.

"How is it?"

"Not great," Arla said. Sam felt her removing the cuff as she added, "Dean, sit down, will you?"

"What's wrong with him?" Dean's voice was almost a shout now.

It was loud enough to hurt. Sam pressed his hand against his head, trying to hold himself together.

"Dean Winchester, sit down!"

There was a scraping sound and then a thump and Sam didn't open his eyes to confirm, but was pretty sure Arla had just pushed his brother into a chair. Either that or Dean had _fallen_ into the chair.

"Sam?" Arla was back next to him, her touch gentle on his arm. "Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

"Headache." He whispered through gritted teeth. It was the most obvious, most easily explained of his symptoms.

"What else?"

Sam pushed the washcloth away, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, and shook his head. He avoided her eyes, not wanting to see the worry. Besides, he didn't want to talk about _what else._ Telling her _I'm not sure you're real because I've been hallucinating the devil for months and I may actually be crazy_ seemed like a good way to send even the nicest person running for the exit. Letting her think it was just dehydration and a headache felt a lot safer. He really didn't want to go back to the nut house if he could avoid it.

"What'd he say?" Dean's voice was less of a shout this time, but no less pushy.

"Dean." Arla turned slightly and said, "Please. Give me a minute? You're not helping anything. If you want this to take all day, please keep interrupting. If you want me to help your brother, shut up!"

Sam didn't hear if Dean replied, but he did hear Dean moving around the room followed by the familiar sound of the cap coming off a beer bottle. And being flung _hard_ against the far wall. Sam squeezed his eyes closed again, nauseated at the mere thought of alcohol and sickened as he considered how much this year had cost them both.

 _He never used to drink like this,_ Sam thought. Fear gripped him because he knew his issues were at least part of the reason Dean was drinking so heavily lately. He hated himself for being such a burden, for being so weak. Before, when Dean drank, there used to be restraint. Control. _At least usually._ But not anymore. And most of it was his fault.

"Sam?" Arla's face was blurry, but near enough that he could see how worried she was.

She was also way too close and he needed to have room to move, needed to be able to get away if he had to. Sam pushed himself back up to a sitting position on the couch; head spinning a little and hurting a lot. He doubted he could have made it to the door if he'd wanted to, but at least Arla backed up a little.

He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. It was a little hard to manage as he picked up on Dean and Arla's voices in the background. First, asking _are you ok_ , and _what do you think you're doing_. Then they started talking between themselves when he didn't answer them and he wasn't sure which was worse; being interrogated or being ignored.

"But I thought you said…"

"I said it would _help_." Arla was obviously trying to keep her voice in check. "I never said it was going to magically and completely heal him, Dean."

"He was doing fine…"

"He wasn't doing fine…"

Dean insisted, "He was up and talking to me and…"

"Yes, because the hydration helped pull him back from the edge of _shock_ ," Arla interrupted, her voice a low whisper that Sam had to concentrate to hear. "But that doesn't mean he can't go right back over the edge. We haven't corrected the _problem_ , Dean. It was like putting a band-aid on a severed limb. Until we address the cause of his symptoms, he is not going to get better. He took that IV out when he should have left it alone."

"Well put it back." Dean said, and Sam heard the bottle of beer slam down on the table.

Sam knew he should speak up now if he wanted to have a say in this at all. Because that IV was _not_ going back in. He couldn't take the thought of something under his skin, _in_ him. A shiver ran through him and instead of saying anything, he chose to concentrate on not throwing up.

Arla lowered her voice even more, apparently trying to keep Dean calm, "I can't just put it back. I'm not going to do something against his will."

 _Thank you!_ Sam wanted to cheer. Even though he hated that they were sitting there five feet away and talking about him like he wasn't there, or worse, like he _was_ there and just too crazy to be involved in the conversation, Sam still didn't feel up to putting his two-cents worth in.

"I'll talk to him," Dean said, sounding defeated.

"Talking to him is a good idea, but it's not enough. Even if he's ok with restarting the IV fluids, that is still not enough. I need more answers if I'm going to be able to help him."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that he needs more help than I can give him here with what I have. He needs a hospital."

Sam forced his eyes open at that. He didn't want to get involved but a hospital was out of the question and he was about to say so when Dean beat him to it.

"No," Dean said firmly, looking straight at him. Sam relaxed a little at Dean's quick shake of his head, a gentle assurance. _Not_ _going there, Sammy_. He looked back at Arla and added softly, "I'm not doing that to him. Whatever you need, we'll get. Supplies, medicine, whatever."

"Dean, he's sick. He needs help!"

"So help him!"

"I can help you both, but only if you let me." Arla sounded frustrated. "You have two choices. I can do what I have to do to help Sam or I can leave. If you won't agree to taking him to a hospital, at the very least I need medical records from the hospital he was admitted to so I…"

"No…"

"Dean! I need to know what they were treating him with. I need to know what medications he was on. He could be in withdrawal…"

Sam watched Dean pale at the word and felt his stomach turn too.

Arla continued, "I need to draw blood. He's running a fever, and it may just be from the stress his body is under, or, like I already said, he may have an underlying infection and need antibiotics."

"You don't have to be here. You can leave."

Dean pushed himself to his feet, his tone cold. Sam had seen the exact moment his demeanor had changed. The mention of withdrawal. Dean had been open to negotiation until then. Now, he was ready to kick her out despite everything. None of this was going the way Sam had hoped.

"Yes I can leave." Arla stood too, her patience obviously reaching its limit. "And if you don't want to listen to me and let me do what I need to in order to help, I _will_ leave. You can figure it out on your own like you were doing before I got here and both of you were on the floor."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off, "Sam is not going to get better without medical attention. So make your decision because I am not going to waste any more time watching both of you suffer."

For a long moment, they fell silent.

Sam studied them as they stared each other down. He didn't know Arla as well as he knew his brother, but right now he could tell Dean was about to punch a wall. Standing there, facing off against Arla, Dean was vibrating with tension. His face was pale, though, and his posture was all wrong. He stood there like he was ready to do battle, but at the same time, was hunched over just slightly like he was in pain. A flicker of that pain crossed his face but it was when he started swallowing hard and closing his eyes a few seconds at a time that Sam spoke up.

"Dean?" It was embarrassing how hoarse his voice sounded.

"What?" Dean asked, turning immediately. He pressed a hand to the table, looking unsteady. But some of the tension went out of him as he looked over and asked, "How're you doing?"

Sam frowned. He hadn't really thought that far ahead. Just knew he had to interrupt the stand-off before Dean hit the ground. Now, though, the question became _how do I get him to sit down and let Arla try to take care of him when I won't even let her near me?_ He knew the only reason Dean had allowed her back inside the cabin was because he'd admitted he didn't feel well and said they needed her help. He'd agreed when Dean had asked if he'd let Arla do what she needed to do to help him, but now _neither_ of them were letting her do anything.

"Sam?" Dean's voice held a hint of amusement as he interrupted Sam's spiraling thoughts. "Was there more to your question? Or did you fall asleep there?"

"Can you sit down?" Sam asked tiredly, feeling ridiculous. But once he'd said it, he realized how much he _needed_ Dean to do just that. "Sit down."

Dean shot him an aggravated look, but he sat down. He said, "There. Happy now?"

"Yeah," Sam whispered. He wasn't exactly happy, but he was relieved to see Dean off his feet. He was rubbing at his chest and looking vaguely sick, but at least he wasn't standing up any more.

"So." Dean was staring at him and Arla might as well not have existed at the moment. "I know you've been listening. What's it gonna be?

Sam didn't need either of them to rehash his options. He said, "How about you hand me the Gatorade and give me a minute?"

And if it came out more snappy than he'd intended, Sam couldn't find it in himself to apologize. Dean didn't seem bothered by his tone though. He reached for the bottle, but Arla got there first. She smiled and Dean nodded, settling back in the chair, resting his elbow on the table and his head in his hand.

"Thanks." Sam accepted the bottle, forcing himself to take a drink. He wasn't sure it was really helping, but if it kept her from stabbing him with an IV, he'd drink the entire bottle.

Arla stepped back and said, "I know you don't feel well, but do you think you could try to eat something? I'm sure it doesn't sound remotely good, but it will help you regain your strength."

His first thought was to say no, but then Dean lifted his head from his hand and he looked so hopeful that Sam changed his mind. Dean didn't want to be near a hospital any more than he did. Nodding, Sam wasn't sure Arla could find anything edible in the room because he sure wasn't going to be eating the beef jerky. She stepped away to try, though, and Sam saw Dean take another long drink of his beer. And then he watched in shock as Arla took the beer right out of Dean's hand. She walked over to the sink and poured it down the drain.

Turning around, a bottle of water in her hand, she placed it on the table in front of him and didn't seem bothered in the slightest by the heated glare Dean gave her. Sam wished he felt a little better because this was definitely a moment for the record books; and something he would enjoy harassing Dean about for years to come. At the moment, he didn't feel up to bothering and Dean was looking so green around the gills that Sam wished Arla had taken the beer away sooner.

Arla reappeared in front of him with a packet of crackers in one hand and a blueberry muffin in the other. And suddenly he _felt_ green around the gills. Neither option looked at all appetizing, but the thought of choking down a dry cracker was more than he could handle at the moment.

Forcing the words out, he said, "I'll try the muffin."

"Sounds good." Arla handed it to him with a small smile.

He stared at the muffin thinking that it sounded the very opposite of good. But he was stuck now. If he didn't force himself to eat that muffin, any protest he made about hospitals or anything else would be immediately dismissed. Steeling himself to take a bite, Sam was interrupted by movement across the room. Dean pushed himself up from the chair and Sam realized he wasn't the only one who didn't have an appetite. One hand pressed against his stomach, Dean looked positively ill. He met Sam's gaze briefly, then bent over like he'd been punched, a flash of pain and _fear_ in his eyes before he squeezed them closed.

The next second found him rushing for the bathroom and Sam realized how well and truly screwed they were.

* * *

Pressing his hand against his stomach, Dean gasped when the pain stabbed clear through him to his back. He briefly registered the flash of surprise and fear in Sam's eyes. And then he was moving, stumbling, tripping and barely breathing as he rushed for the bathroom. Arla was calling to him but he ignored her and slammed the bathroom door behind him, barely reaching the toilet before his stomach turned itself inside out.

Everything came up in a painful torrent of misery that left him moaning between the puking. Tears in his eyes, he was sick over and over. The pain in his back and stomach stabbed with every breath he took; when he was _able_ to take a breath. Dean held on for dear life as brutal round followed brutal round. He'd been feeling sick for awhile now, but this was taking it to a whole new level. Spitting into the toilet, he gasped raggedly for a few seconds, then began throwing up again.

When it finally _finally_ died down, Dean felt like he'd been run over by a train. Not the first time he'd felt this bad, certainly, but you didn't exactly develop a tolerance either. He was going to have a hard time convincing Sam and Arla that he wasn't sick now.

 _Crap!_

Shakily, he wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. As he straightened and reached up to flush the toilet, his stomach did a triple flip. Because there was blood. A lot of it. Not the minimal amount that he'd seen on Sam's lips after his dry heaving spell earlier. Dean felt a chill run through him because this wasn't just _blood._

This was _bleeding._

Reaching up with a shaking hand, he flushed the toilet to erase the evidence and started to push himself to his feet. Which was when he realized he wasn't alone. _I shut the door for a reason. So much for privacy,_ he thought with a degree of annoyance. Annoyance that faded immediately to worry. Because it wasn't Arla standing there watching him, it was Sam. He was holding himself up against the counter and, from the horrified expression on his face, Dean knew he'd seen the blood too. He could only imagine what was going through Sam's mind. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

They locked gazes and Dean struggled to form words, find a way to tell him it was all ok, that it was all going to be fine. That it wasn't a big deal. He didn't even believe that himself at this point. But he had to focus on other things first. Needed to make sure Sam didn't lose it. Because he had that scary vague expression on his face again; the one that left Dean wondering what exactly he was seeing, _where_ exactly his mind had gone. They'd come too far for him to lose Sam now.

Dean straightened and let go of the toilet, feeling himself shaking like a leaf. He opened his mouth to reassure his brother, but the darkness reached for him.

Sam was quicker though.

"Dean!" Sam caught him as he went down.

He closed his eyes, letting Sam ease him against the wall. It seemed like the thing to do at the moment since he wasn't sure he even knew which way was up. Lightheaded, he felt disconnected from everything that was going on around him. In the background, he could hear Arla's voice now. _Maybe she'd been talking the entire time,_ he wasn't sure of anything except the pain and dizziness. Closing the door should have ensured privacy. He could even let Sam off easy for invading this time, but he did _not_ appreciate that Arla had joined the party. He wasn't up to complaining at the moment; he was having trouble catching his breath and the pain in his chest wasn't helping anything.

"Dean? Talk to me, man. Come on, open your eyes." Sam's voice was loud and right in his ear.

Pushing at him, Dean leaned his head against the wall and did as he was instructed. He caught a glimpse of Sam's panic-stricken expression, then squeezed his eyes closed, one hand at his stomach. He was going to be sick again. The world spun a little more, and then he was gasping and retching into a trash can. As much as he was hurting, Dean couldn't help but be impressed with the fact Sam was actually managing to keep him from face planting.

The sight of bloody saliva did nothing to help his churning stomach and he kept his eyes closed as he spit a couple times. Head lowered, trying to catch his breath, he leaned against Sam and tried to pick up on the conversation.

"Where's the hospital?" Sam's tone was urgent and Dean couldn't exactly blame him but…

"Wait, what?" Dean tried to speak, but his throat felt torn up and he wasn't sure he'd even made a sound. He coughed and gagged painfully, feeling Sam tighten his grip on his shoulders.

Obviously he was missing more of the conversation than he realized because they seemed to have been making plans and not involving him in any of them. He wanted to complain, but wasn't sure he could stay conscious long enough to manage it.

"Not far," Arla said, either she hadn't even heard him or she was ignoring him. "You two picked the right side of town. But I still think we should call an ambulance…"

After their last nightmarish ride in an ambulance, Dean wanted to say absolutely not. Sam _did_ say it, "Absolutely not. Just...we can...if you...I don't think I can…"

"I'll drive, Sam."

Dean almost smiled. She'd interpreted Sam's confused thoughts easily and he felt a measure of relief knowing that his brother wouldn't be the one behind the wheel. He hadn't even felt up to eating a freakin' muffin. No way did Dean want him behind the wheel...even if it wasn't Baby he would be wrecking.

"Ok," Sam said, and he sounded as relieved not to have to drive as Dean was. Shifting his position next to Dean, Sam added, "I'll get him up."

Sam started pulling on him and somehow Dean found himself on his feet. He wrapped an arm around his chest and put the other hand against the counter as he tried really hard not to pass out. Squinting up at Sam, Dean saw that the panic from a few seconds ago had vanished. Sam still looked freaked out and sick, but now he had that determined look on his face.

They were going to the hospital. No arguments, no choices, no options.

And Dean was actually ok with that. _Sooner the better, actually_.

"Come on," Sam said, sounding as out of breath as Dean felt. He had his arm wrapped around Dean's shoulders and pulled him from the bathroom.

"Sam," Dean choked out, trying to stay on his feet; trying to take his own weight.

"What? Am I hurting you? I'm sorry." Sam was rambling, "Just hang on, we'll get you to the hospital. You're gonna be fine. Hang on just hang on."

 _And ok maybe a little panic was back._ Dean shook his head, tugging at Sam's wrist. Their forward progress ceased and Dean took a painful breath then rasped, "Shoes."

Sam stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language. Miserable as he felt, Dean almost laughed at the sheer confusion on Sam's face. Which really wasn't fair considering not ten minutes ago he'd barely been holding on to consciousness himself. He looked like death warmed over and Dean didn't know how he was even on his feet considering he'd barely been able to hold onto a bottle of Gatorade.

"Your shoes, dumbass." Dean pointed. "Not taking me anywhere looking like a hobo."

 _At least not a shoeless one,_ Dean thought. Because Sam needed a shower and a shave and was just in his sweatpants and t-shirt so he pretty much looked homeless anyway. And that put a rock in the pit of Dean's stomach. Because he _was_ homeless. _They_ were homeless. Bobby was gone, his house, their refuge for all these years, burned down. And they didn't even have the Impala.

Dean felt tears sting his eyes and he attributed them to the pain in his gut because it was easier than admitting how lost he felt without Bobby. He wished Arla hadn't taken that beer away from him.

"Ok ok," Sam said, his voice drawing Dean back to the current situation. Sam was frantically looking around and apparently not seeing his boots right beside the bed.

"Sam, let me help Dean to the car." Arla was beside him and tugging his arm over her shoulder. "I've got him. Get your shoes and a jacket."

Dean wanted to pull away, to not lean on her, but when another painful spasm tore through him and he almost lost his balance, almost threw up on the carpet, he was beyond grateful for her support. She guided him to the door and he hoped that Sam could manage to get his boots on without passing out.

"Ok. A few steps," Arla's guiding voice was calm in his ear. "Nice and easy. Almost there. Last one."

Dizzy and weak, he wanted to give up on consciousness and sink down to the ground even if it was still sprinkling cold rain and the ground was muddy. He groaned, one hand gripping the railing as he froze on the spot. She waited, rubbing his back, which he had to admit felt pretty good all things considered. After a few seconds, the pain eased and Dean looked down at her.

She offered a smile and said, "I have to admit this isn't exactly how I thought this was going to go."

Shaking his head, he snorted. _Me neither._ Releasing the railing, he rubbed at his chest and asked, "He ok?"

Arla took a quick look over her shoulder and said, "Sitting on the bed putting his boots on. Let me get you to the car and I'll go back for him."

"Bet you're sorry you gave me your number." Dean forced a smile as she guided him toward her car.

She laughed a little and said, "Actually I'm not. I'm only sorry you didn't call me sooner. I have this overwhelming urge to say I told you so."

And as bad as he felt, Dean grinned, "I bet you do."

"And I'm not going to let you forget it either." Arla shook her head, then asked, "Front seat or back?"

"Back," Dean answered. Since he was probably going to spend the entire trip with his head between his knees, he figured it'd be less humiliating to puke in the back seat than right next to her. He was already humiliated enough to last a lifetime.

"Ok." Arla pulled the door open and said, "Here you go."

"Go get…"

"I'm going. Sit still."

Dean wasn't going anywhere. He wrapped his hands around his middle and leaned over till he was half laying across the back seat. Nothing eased the pain and he was struggling for every breath, but at least he wasn't on his feet any longer. He felt heavy, tired, and gave in to the desire to sleep.

* * *

Arla rushed up the steps of the cabin, thinking that maybe she was being a fool. Maybe calling an ambulance would be wiser. Actually, there was no _maybe_ to it. An ambulance _would_ have been much wiser considering she had no idea what was wrong with Dean and hadn't done anything to even attempt to stabilize him. But since it was only the fact that Dean was throwing up blood that was even getting them on the road to a hospital in the first place, she decided to pick her battles. Worry coursed through her over...well, over _everything_. This was so much worse than she'd anticipated.

"Sam?" She walked inside and was thankful to find him still on his feet. _If he goes down, I'm going to have to call an ambulance because there's no way I'm going to be able to pick him up._ He had his boots on but no jacket and was frantically digging through the stuff on the table. "Sam? What are you looking for?"

"Insurance cards," He answered, not looking at her. "Wallets. Does he have his wallet? Can't find...dunno where my wallet…"

"It's ok. Don't worry about it right now." Cautiously, she put her hand on his arm, drawing his attention, "We just need to go to the hospital. Let's go and I'll take care of the rest, ok?"

He nodded and unsteadily stepped away from the table, one hand against the wall as he walked to the door. Arla glanced at the table and caught sight of a jacket slung over one of the chairs and the key to the room next to the package of muffins. Grabbing the jacket and the key, she locked the door behind her. Sam was working his way down the steps by the time she left the cabin and had the key safely in her pocket. He was clinging to the railing with both hands as he went down the steps and she reached his side as he stumbled off the last step and released his grip on the railing.

 _Please, whatever you do, do not fall down!_ Arla grabbed his arm, feeling him automatically attempt to pull away, and her heart broke. He seemed extremely sensitive to touch and she didn't like to consider the potential reasons for that. She held onto him all the same and helped him stumble to the car. Doubting she would ever learn exactly what had happened to them both that brought them to this place today, Arla knew without a doubt that it had been unspeakably bad.

And she wasn't sure she honestly _wanted_ to know.

They reached her car and Arla could see that Dean was crumpled down on the seat. She wanted to be halfway to the hospital by now and as much as she was worrying, she had a strong feeling her worry didn't hold a candle to Sam's. He practically tore the door off its hinges.

"Dean!"

At least she didn't have to worry about him hitting the ground any more, Arla decided when he dove into the back seat and pulled Dean back up into a sitting position.

"Dean, come on. I swear, you better wake the hell up right now." Sam wasn't paying any attention to her and she doubted that any words of comfort or consolation she tried to offer would be heard. So she just closed the door behind him and rushed to the drivers side, tossing the jacket on the seat next to her. It was past time they were on the road.

Starting the engine, Arla stole a quick glance in the back seat as she backed down the driveway onto the narrow road. Dean didn't look like he was interested in paying any attention to his brother, but his eyes were at least open now. Arla put the car in drive and bumped down the rutted path to reach the main road.

"Keep your eyes open, Dean," Sam urged, pushing him back against the seat and patting his chest, "Come on, listen to me."

"Shut up," Dean muttered, resting his head on the back of the seat and weakly pushing Sam away. "I'm fine."

Arla caught the flash of annoyance in Sam's eyes as he said, "You're an idiot. You aren't fine at all. You're seriously sick, man."

"You're the one who won't eat."

"That kind of pales in comparison to puking blood." Sam countered, then his voice dropped as he repeated, " _Blood_ , Dean. Damn it, what did you do to yourself?"

Arla kept her eyes on the road, knowing that if they had their choice, she wouldn't be privy to this conversation. If Dean hadn't gone down, in fact, Arla had a feeling that she would have been dismissed from the cabin without managing to get them to agree to darken the door of a hospital. The funny thing was, convincing Sam to take _Dean_ to the hospital had been a much easier battle than convincing _Sam_ that _he_ needed a hospital.

Silence fell for a short time and Arla focused on getting to the main road. It had been a few years since the last time she'd been on this side of town, so she needed to concentrate on making sure she took the correct turn. Once she was on the main highway, though, she spared another glance at the backseat. Both boys were slumped back against the seat, shoulder to shoulder, their heads tilted towards each other, eyes closed. If they hadn't both been the color of chalk, Arla would have found the sight adorable. _Who am I kidding?_ She smiled ruefully, _it is adorable._

It was also sad. And worrisome. She pressed her foot down on the gas and decided she should have called for an ambulance. Just as she was starting to wonder if they had both lost consciousness, Arla picked up on the soft conversation from the back seat.

"You doin' ok?"

Arla glanced in the rear-view mirror and realized that Dean had been the one asking the question. Never mind that he was the one who was bleeding. She was tempted to roll her eyes, remembering how he'd acted back in Arizona, half-dead with pneumonia and fretting over his brother at every turn. It was the same old song, different verse. Trying not to make it obvious she was hanging on every word, Arla waited for a response. It was a long time in coming and another look in the mirror revealed that Dean didn't like the delay any more than she did.

He forced his eyes open and asked, "Sam?"

"Y'ok?"

"I asked first," Dean whispered.

"Really tired."

"Yeah."

Arla had to strain to hear the rest of the conversation.

Dean sounded breathless as he said, "We get there, you get...get yourself checked out, ok?"

"Dean…"

"No. You do it...hear me? Stay with Arla," his voice was trailing off, "and you'll be fine."

"Dean."

"Can't...mess around...anymore with this. You're not getting better."

Arla saw the welcoming sight of the hospital coming up and knew they weren't getting there a moment too soon.

"Dean…" Sam tried again, his voice no stronger than his brothers.

"Sammy. I _need_ you to promise me."

She pulled into the hospital's driveway and headed for the emergency room entrance as she heard Sam finally say, "Fine."

And then she heard shock in his voice, "Dean? Hey! Don't you dare...Dean!"

Parking in front of the doors, Arla glanced back and saw that Dean had gone completely slack in his brother's arms.

* * *

 **Well. They're finally at a hospital. now they can get better, right? right?!**

 **thanks ever so much for reading! Have a wonderful week!**


	12. Ch 12: Let me be your shelter

**Hi! Well if it hadn't been for a holiday weekend and family visiting this chapter would have been up LONG ago. Sorry! And it would have been up earlier tonight if the power hadn't gone out for like 4 hours leaving me sweating in the heat with no way to microwave any snacks and no computer and no wifi! But hurrah power is back, i had my snack and now the chapter is ready! (i'm still sweating in the heat cuz I'm too cheap to use the AC lol but that's beside the point haha!)**

 **A thousand apologies for the long wait on this chapter! Part of my goal for Camp Nanowrimo this month is to post five chapters before end of July. Here's the first. :) Happy reading!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 12: Let me be your shelter**_

Sam didn't even realize the car had stopped moving until someone opened the door and started talking to him. Dean was a motionless weight in his arms and he couldn't force himself to look away from his brother; the unreasonable thought running through his head that if he did, Dean would die. The voice grew louder, closer and he realized it was Arla.

"Sam, we're at the hospital. It's ok now. They're coming to help…" Her voice went in and out and he tilted his head until he was able to see her standing there next to the open door.

Everything was black with flashes of light behind her and he had to close his eyes. He could feel Dean breathing under his hand. _Too fast!_ But at least he was still breathing. _The blood...why is he bleeding? Did he get hurt and I didn't even notice it? Did_ I _hurt him?_ Sam sucked in a terrified breath at the thought. _What if I did hurt him and he didn't say anything?_

"Sam!" Arla sounded panicked and he felt her hands on his shoulders, on his face, pushing on him until his head was resting on the seat back. "Sam, stay with me! No, go to the other side," Sam was confused by that until he heard the other door open and realized she'd been talking to someone else, "get him out that way."

"What happened to him?" A completely unfamiliar voice asked.

"I'm not sure," Arla replied, "He was vomiting blood."

"How long ago?"

"Not twenty minutes. And he just lost consciousness as we pulled into the parking lot."

The unfamiliar voice asked, "What's his name?"

"Dean. That's Dean and this is his brother, Sam."

"They your sons?"

"Nephews," Arla answered. Sam forced his eyes open as she patted his cheek. She smiled, although she looked scared, and said, "That's it. Stay with me."

"Dean?" Sam asked, feeling someone on the other side of him, gently pulling his arm away from his brother.

Arla nodded, her hands dropping from his face to grip his hands, keeping him from holding onto his brother like he wanted to. She said very slowly and clearly, "They're going to get Dean out of the car and take care of him."

Trying to make sense of any of that took more effort than he had to spare at the moment, and Sam found himself watching as Dean was pulled from the back seat and taken into the darkness. He was so tired that he almost gave in to the pull of the darkness himself, but then he remembered Dean had been bleeding and said urgently, "He needs help!"

"That's why we're at the hospital," Arla said, still holding onto him, her thumbs rubbing gently at his wrists.

He pulled away from her, blinking rapidly as the reality of the situation hit him. Dean. Bleeding. Hospital. _Hospital!_ Sam gasped and felt his heart-rate skyrocket as he finally understood. They were at a hospital.

 _Bobby died in a hospital._

 _Dad died in a hospital._

"No, just give me a minute," a woman's voice filtered in and out. "He's ok…"

 _Dean died in a hospital…._

"Sam!" Hands were shaking him.

"Ma'am, we can help…"

"Just a minute!" the woman's voice was loud, then became very soft as she said, "Sam, it's ok, calm down."

"Dean." He wished he could make her understand. Wished _he_ understood. Everything was so confusing.

"Dean's being looked after."

Sam opened his eyes and focused on the woman holding on to him. He felt so sick and tried to push her away, but she wouldn't let go. Listening to her concerned voice for a moment, he finally recognized her and asked, "Arla?"

She smiled like he'd given her a million dollars and said, "It's me, Sam."

"What's...what's happening?" His voice was nothing but a broken whisper.

"You were having a panic attack, Sam," Arla said, rubbing his arms. Her smile faded and she was frowning like he'd done something wrong. "Honey, you're burning up."

Sam couldn't tell if he was burning up or freezing; he just felt sick.

"Time to get you inside." Arla's hand brushed across his cheek and he felt a chill run through him.

Shaking his head, heart skipping a beat at the thought of being inside a hospital, Sam said, "No, I...I can't do this."

"Yes you can. I'm going to be right with you. Dean asked you to get checked out, remember?"

And yeah, he did remember that. Overwhelmed at the thought of setting foot in the hospital, Sam asked, "Can you...just make sure he's ok...and I'll stay right here and…"

Arla said, "No. I can't do that, Sam. You have to trust me on this. Dean's getting the help he needs but he's going to be extremely ticked off if I don't get you taken care of too. You don't want him mad at me, do you?"

Sam saw the twinkle in her eye and knew she was playing him. Too tired to fight it anymore, though, he whispered, "I don't know what to tell them."

"How about you let me worry about that?" Arla's gaze was steady, her tone confident. "I do have a bit experience in the medical field, you know."

"I want to see Dean first."

"Alright. Let's start there."

Sam nodded, struggling to get out of the car, but Arla planted her hand on his shoulder and said, "Don't you dare. Sit still."

Confused and trying to process her order, Sam heard her talking to someone he couldn't see. And then Arla was looking at him again with a smile. "You're not walking, mister."

"I can…"

"Fall flat on your face if you try? Glad we agree. This nice man here has brought us a wheelchair and…"

"I'm not…"

"Not going to argue?" Arla beamed, purposefully cutting him off again and pushing the wheelchair close.

He still hesitated although he knew she was right; if he tried to walk, he was going to fall over. Even now, he felt that awful sensation of being on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Sam," Arla said, leaning close and lowering her voice, "it's going to be ok."

He found himself starting to believe her.

* * *

Arla let the security guard hold the wheelchair steady as she assisted Sam out of the car. He was heavy and not at all steady, and the security guard was a nice muscular fellow, but she didn't dare take a chance on Sam's reaction to a stranger helping him. She hadn't stopped counting her blessings that he was, so far anyway, allowing _her_ help. Uncertain how long the tenuous arrangement would last, she didn't dare tempt fate.

"If you leave your keys, ma'am," the security guard said, "I'll park your car for you."

"Thank you so much." Arla breathed a sigh of relief, not just at his words, but also at the fact that Sam was safely settled in the wheelchair. She grabbed the jacket from the front seat, then handed her keys to the guard. "I appreciate your help."

He smiled and accepted the keys. "It's my pleasure. Go on inside now. I'll find you once I've parked the car and give you back the keys. Just go look after your boys."

"Thank you." Arla headed toward the entrance and saw a young woman in pale blue scrubs heading her way.

"Are you Dean's aunt?" the blonde nurse asked, meeting her halfway.

"I am." Arla didn't even hesitated to continue the ruse. She hadn't planned it originally, but when she'd been asked if they were her sons, she'd immediately answered as their aunt instead. Knowing that their mother had died when they'd been children, Arla hadn't wanted to go anywhere that sensitive subject. She gave the nurse a brief smile and said, "Arla Pender. And this is Sam, Dean's brother."

"I'm Marcy. I'm not Dean's primary nurse, but they sent me to meet up with you," Marcy explained, her concerned gaze falling immediately on Sam. "Do you need…"

"Just need to get inside and see how Dean's doing," Arla said quickly. Not wanting to even begin to deal with the can of worms that was Sam's condition, she shook her head slightly, receiving an astute answering nod from the nurse.

Marcy said, "Ok. I can show you to the waiting room…"

"Actually, Marcy, we'd really like to be with Dean right now. I know you're all very busy so we won't get in the way, but it would be really helpful if we could see how he's doing." This time Arla nodded at Sam.

Again, understanding lit the nurse's face. It would take a very dense person indeed to not realize how bad off Sam was at the moment and consider rushing him off for treatment. But it was the obvious worry of one sick family member for another that won the nurse over. She said, "They're just getting him stabilized, so I'll have you wait right outside his room for a few minutes and then you can go in and be with him."

"That would be good," Arla said, following the nurse through the waiting room.

Marcy looked down at Sam and said kindly, "Sam, I know you're worried, but I want you to know that Dean's being taken care of by some of the best people in the state. He's

tired and groggy, but he's been awake since we brought him in. We'll get you in there to see him in a little bit, ok?"

Sam nodded, but didn't comment. Arla couldn't see his face as she pushed the wheelchair, but she could see him trembling. Pausing, she unfolded the coat that she'd been carrying and tucked it around his shoulders, taking a second to catch his eye. Again, he only nodded, but she could see the gratitude in his bloodshot eyes. Arla patted him on the shoulder then returned to her post, glancing up at Marcy who had been waiting patiently.

As they began walking again, Marcy asked, "Would you be able to provide some history for us while we wait?"

"I can give a little," Arla said, knowing that explaining what was going on with Dean would be a bit easier than trying to figure out what she was going to say about Sam.

She glanced back down at him. He had a hand pressed to his head, eyes closed, but he was holding on with everything he had. Breathing a little easier, she just hoped that this wasn't a terrible mistake. If she'd come to understand one thing about the situation, it was that it could change in a split second.

She knew that neither brother had wanted to come to the hospital and she'd seen enough to know that Sam's issues weren't limited to his physical symptoms. The anxiety and panic attacks were so uncharacteristic of the young man she remembered from six years ago that she had trouble even believing he was the same person. Whatever he'd gone through, it had left him broken in ways she wasn't sure she could even hope to fix.

"Right this way," Marcy directed, interrupting Arla's unhappy thoughts.

Arla followed her gaze to a room where she could see a flurry of practiced, yet unrushed, activity. It was a sight that she was completely used to and typically unconcerned by. She heard a doctor calling out all the orders she herself ordered on a regular basis. _BUN, lytes, h &h, glucose, coags, liver enzymes, ABGs, urinalysis, chest xray, type and crossmatch;_ orders she would be calling for right now if Dean were her patient. But Dean wasn't her patient. In this case, he was her family member and she felt the same worry that all family members felt walking toward a scene like that.

"We've got two lines in, Phil." A nurse called out from across the room. "Lactated Ringer's wide open and we're just waiting on the type and crossmatch to call the blood bank if we need to."

"Great. Looks like that BP's coming up a little."

And then a nurse went past them, tugging the curtain closed around the cubicle and Arla stopped outside the room, carefully out of the way of the staff. Arla saw Sam straightening up and could practically feel the fear running through his tense frame; especially now that they couldn't see what was happening in the room.

Before she could say anything, Marcy opened a notebook and asked, "Ms. Pender, could you tell me what Dean's symptoms were and when they first began?"

"Please, just call me Arla. And I only met up with the boys earlier today so I don't know how long he's been feeling ill," _time to start making up that story_ , Arla thought to herself. She stepped a hesitant pace away from Sam and lowered her voice, "They've been out of...the country working. Dean looked ill when I arrived earlier, but he didn't want to tell me what was going on. He was rubbing at his stomach and chest off and on and then he just started throwing up blood."

Marcy nodded and thoughtfully lowered her voice too, "He vomited again when they brought him in. He's been in and out, but not really conscious enough to tell us anything. Has he had any recent injury?"

"Not that I'm aware of." Arla glanced at Sam, considering asking him. But from the expression on his face, she had a feeling that wouldn't be a wise plan. He looked less than five minutes from passing out, and more shaken then she'd ever seen him. Looking back at the nurse, Arla said, "They've both been through a lot of stress recently."

"They're certainly having a stressful evening tonight!" Marcy smiled ruefully. She asked, "Is he taking any medications?"

"They had some OTC painkillers, Tylenol and ibuprofen, but I'm not sure if he's taken them or how frequently he may have been using them. I don't think he takes any medications on a daily basis."

"Tobacco or alcohol use?"

"Alcohol." Arla thought about the empty bottles sitting around the room, the way he'd almost finished off a beer in a handful of seconds before she'd taken it away from him. "I'm not sure how much, but I'd say he's been drinking quite a bit in the past 24 hours."

Marcy nodded, jotting the information down. "Any allergies?"

Arla shook her head, again wishing she could ask Sam, but he looked so distant that she wasn't sure he was even paying attention to what was happening despite the fact that his eyes were glued to the closed curtain in front of him.

"Any medical conditions of note?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Ok, thank you, Arla," Marcy said, glancing over her shoulder at the cubicle. "Dr. Maguire is heading up your nephew's care. Right now they're working to stabilize him, give him fluids and do some assessments to help determine what is precipitating the bleeding."

Arla smiled at the nurse's explanation and said, "I'm actually an ER physician myself. I can tell your team is excellent at what they do."

"Oh! I apologize, Dr. Pender…"

"Please, Arla is just fine. I'm not here as a doctor, Marcy." She looked down at Sam and smiled sadly at the nurse. "Today I'm here as family."

Marcy gave her arm a gentle squeeze. She nodded and said, "I'm sure we'll have some other questions along the way. Dr. Maguire will come over to talk to you in a moment. Then you can slip in and see Dean."

"Thank you Marcy." Arla was about to check on Sam when she heard another voice addressing her.

"Ma'am?" It was the security guard from earlier. "I have your keys."

"Thank you." She accepted the keys with a smile.

The guard returned her smile with a quick glance at Sam, then he asked, "Are you expecting anyone else?"

"Actually I am. My husband. I'm not sure when he'll get here; he's flying in sometime tonight." Which reminded her that she should probably text him and let him know to come by the hospital.

"No problem. I'll be on duty all night so whenever he gets here, I'll let him know where you are."

"Thank you so much. At this point, I'm not sure where we'll be," Arla sighed, the concern weighing heavily again.

The guard nodded and said, "Wherever you are, I'll get your husband to you. What's his name?"

"Thomas Pender."

"Alrighty then." The guard jotted it down in a notebook then said, "You take care of your boys and I'll take care of getting Thomas to you whenever he gets here."

Arla thanked him again, then turned her attention to Sam. Stepping in front of him, she asked, "How are you doing, Sam?"

It seemed to take a lot of effort, but he finally met her gaze and said, "Think we probably should've come sooner."

"Told you so," Arla said, unable to keep from teasing him.

She was rewarded with a shaky smile that faded all too quickly as his attention was drawn yet again to the treatment room. Arla squeezed his hand and was relieved when he didn't flinch away from her. She wanted to tell him that everything was going to be ok; wanted to fill the silence with encouragement. But she didn't know for sure that everything _was_ going to be ok.

In fact, she was pretty sure that if anything happened to _either_ brother, the other one would never be ok again.

* * *

Dean stared up at the bright white ceiling and decided that if he were ever to find himself pursuing a career as the interior decorator of a hospital, he would paint the walls and ceiling something other than white. It hurt his brain to look at it, but he didn't dare close his eyes because that one nurse, _not the hot one_ , but the one with the squinty eyes, she was making him nervous with the way she was looking him over like he was a bug on a wall.

Or a piece of meat on a slab.

He shot her what he hoped was a threatening glare, then went back to studying the ceiling even though it only intensified his headache. _Maybe a nice blue. Or a relaxing shade of tan_. Dean knew there were far more important things for him to be thinking of than the color of the ceiling, but he didn't have the strength to focus.

He'd come awake somewhere between the car and the room he was in now. Disoriented and blinded by the bright lights as he'd been rushed through the hallways, he'd thrown up all over himself somewhere along the way. His vision had been too clouded to see if it were blood again, but he sure had _tasted_ it and he knew that throwing up blood ranked pretty damn high on the _things that are very, very_ not good list.

When the buzzing in his head died down and he could ( _mostly_ ) see again, he realized that he'd been robbed of his flannel and t-shirt and two IV's had magically appeared. One in each arm. _If I had three arms, would they have put one in that arm too?_ he wondered, not sure why they thought he needed so many _._

People were talking over him and around him and doing things to him and he couldn't keep up with any of it. But every time he tried to retreat from the brightness and noise, someone was bossing him around to _try to stay awake_ and _can you tell me how bad your pain is_ and _do you have any allergies_ and a hundred other questions that he didn't have the strength to even attempt to answer so he just ignored them all.

His gut still hurt like someone'd stabbed him _and_ punched him. A few thousand times. His mouth was dry, his head pounding, and he didn't appreciate how handsy the nurses were getting with him. Snapping at them to _mind the goods, ladies_ , took too much effort, though, so he squeezed his eyes closed and resigned himself to his fate; hoping that at some point good drugs would be in his future and he could give up the hassle of consciousness in favor of peaceful oblivion.

But between the noise, the lights, and feeling like hell, Dean couldn't slip away into sleep. There was one question that he needed an answer to before he could do that.

 _Sam_.

* * *

"Arla?"

Sam heard the nurse's voice coming back toward them and he hoped the next words out of her mouth were going to be that they could go see Dean because he wasn't sure he could hang on much longer. He couldn't even attempt to describe the pain in his head at this point if someone had asked. And he could feel himself slipping rapidly toward the darkness that was welling up on all sides of him. Blinking at the nurse, Sam realized that he could only see vague shapes; splotches of bright against the fuzzy circle of blackness around the edges of his vision.

The words seemed distorted and slow, like a recording played back at half-speed, but he caught the key elements.

"This is Dr. Maguire."

Arla was standing right next to him, but he barely heard her say, "I'm Arla and this is Dean's brother Sam."

Sam felt at least three sets of eyes on him, but he didn't bother wasting his breath to join the conversation. The doctor, though, said, "I think it looks like we may need to take care of Sam too…"

"Yes," Arla interrupted quickly, "but we'd really like to be able to see how Dean's doing first."

"He's stable right now, although his blood pressure is still quite low," Dr. Maguire explained, "He's receiving IV fluids to rehydrate him along with ondansetron to alleviate the nausea. We've given him something for the pain and some oxygen to help make him more comfortable. We'll be sending him for an endoscopy to determine the extent of the upper gastrointestinal bleeding. It's most likely an ulcer, but we won't know for sure until we have the results from the scope."

 _Ulcer_. _Huh._ Sam frowned, staring down at the floor and thinking about that. Ulcers weren't so bad, right? _But all that blood…_ he shivered at the thought and felt Arla's hand on his shoulder.

"Can we go in and see him?" Arla asked, sounding urgent. She didn't let go of his shoulder.

 _Maybe I look as bad as I feel._

"We'll be transferring him upstairs soon to prepare him for the endoscopy, but you're welcome to stay with him until then," the doctor's voice was going in and out, but Sam only needed to hear that they could see Dean.

The rest was just details.

"Thank you," Arla said, and then they were moving.

Sam shivered despite the jacket around his shoulders. The room was too cold and too bright. _Hospital_. The word made his skin crawl and the smell of the place, the smell of _blood_ was enough to make him gag. Focusing on the bed in front of him, Sam clenched his fists; determined not to let anyone potentially stop him from making sure Dean was going to be ok.

 _No matter how bad I look_.

"Sam?"

He lifted his heavy head an inch at the sound of his brother's voice. Dean was laying there on the stretcher, pale as the sheets, but his eyes were open. Sam almost couldn't breathe. The equipment, the computers, the IV tubing, everything felt like it was closing in on him. This was bad, so bad. But Dean was awake now, so maybe it wasn't _that_ bad. Maybe they _could_ get through this. In another moment, Arla had pushed the wheelchair right next to the stretcher and he wanted to say something, but it was hard enough to keep his eyes open let alone try to speak.

Dean didn't move, obviously weakened and hurting, but his eyes were worried as he said again, "Sam."

Wanting to answer, knowing he _should_ answer, Sam found that the words just wouldn't come. Head spinning, Sam leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of the stretcher. Voices, including Dean's, were buzzing all around him in a cacophonous muddle so harsh he thought his ears might bleed from the pressure of it all. Sam tried to concentrate on Dean's face, but it was a lost cause because he couldn't really see anything anymore.

 _Just a minute, just need a minute_ , he tried to explain. But the words still refused to come. He just needed to close his eyes for a minute and he'd be fine. Dean called his name again, but he sounded very far away as Sam fell forward, his head landing on his arms as a comfortable, peaceful darkness swept over him.

* * *

"Sam!" Dean's heart, beating way too fast if the beeping of the monitor in the background was anything to go by, almost stopped entirely as he watched Sam go down.

For one split second, he'd been almost, _almost_ , comfortable. The handsy nurses, hot and squinty, had both finally stopped putting things into him and taking things off of him and left him with a heady drug-induced apathy and a warm blanket. He'd been about to close his eyes and stop fighting the lethargy, but then he'd heard Arla's voice and knew that where she was, Sam better be. And he was. In a wheelchair and Dean really wanted to know what magic spell Arla had used to make that miracle happen.

Before he could really say anything, he was watching his brother collapse and the drugs weren't doing much for him anymore. He fought to sit up, to reach for Sam, to do _anything_ to help. But all he managed to do was touch Sam's arm before people were coming from every direction and hauling Sam away from him.

Arla was suddenly in front of him, pushing him back against the pillows and saying, "Dean, they've got him. They've got him. He's going to be ok."

 _She doesn't understand! She doesn't get it…_ "You need to stay with him!"

"I will. I'm going to stay with him, I promise."

"Don't leave him alone, ok?" Dean asked, hating that he sounded like he was begging. And then he just didn't care anymore, "Please. Stay with him."

Arla squeezed his hand and held on as she said, "Dean, I'm going to stay with him. I just need to know if there's anything more you can tell me. Anything else I need to know to help him."

"I told you what I know. He's been pretty messed up...and he got hit by that car...told you about that, didn't I?" Dean rubbed his head.

"Yes. You said that. Broken rib. Bruises. He'd been hallucinating before."

"Yeah."

"Then he was admitted to the hospital. Do you know…"

"I don't know what they gave him at the hospital. He said they gave him..." Dean paused, remembering what Sam had mentioned before.

"Dean? What is it?"

"He...he said he thought...he was withdrawing from the meds."

Arla studied him for a moment before saying, "Dean. That's something I need to tell the doctor about. If he's really going through withdrawal, he needs treatment."

Hating that he'd mentioned it, but knowing he'd really had no other choice, Dean swallowed hard, feeling dizzy and nauseated again. The realization that he had _no_ idea what had happened to Sam in that hospital, _because you_ left _him there!_ made him feel cold to his very soul. Feeling completely helpless, he admitted, "I don't know what they did to him."

Arla squeezed his hand again and said, "It's going to be ok…"

"He just kept saying that everything hurt." Dean continued, not even hearing what she was saying. "I don't know if he didn't want to be more specific or if he just couldn't be."

"When was he released from the hospital?"

Dean frowned, trying to focus. The days, the nights, everything ran together. He said, "Two...yeah, it was two days ago we walked out."

"So he wasn't released? You just…"

"We left. Cas...he said he took the crazy...and then Sam was ok. I mean he…" Dean could feel the darkness creeping toward him. He felt short of breath and his heart was beating too fast again. "He wasn't ok. Hasn't been. But he wasn't…."

"Hallucinating?" Arla supplied. Mind reading obviously was one of her secret powers. "Your friend, Cas? He had a way to take the hallucinations away?"

Dean nodded, fisting his hands in the blanket and trying not to pass out. Voice barely a whisper, he said, "I thought...at first...that Cas took it all, fixed him...all the way."

"But even though the hallucinations are gone," Arla said, again filling in the blanks, "Sam's still dealing with all of it."

Dean nodded tiredly; some of the tension easing out of his body despite the tension still thrumming through his overtaxed brain. He knew part of it was his body was simply that close to shutting down. Understanding that Sam might be free from the hallucinations yet still dealing with the physical and mental damage the experience had inflicted on him was sobering.

"Dean?" Arla drew his attention with a gentle touch on his arm. Her smile had him almost completely convinced that she was an angel. She tucked the blanket around him and shook a finger, "Stay still. Do what the nurses tell you to. I need to trust you to take care of yourself so I can help your brother."

"Scout's honor," Dean whispered, not quite able to return her smile.

Rolling her eyes, Arla said, "Why is it I can't really see you as a boy scout, Dean Winchester?"

"Wasn't much for the shorts." This time he managed a grin.

"But you _were_ into the Brownies, I'll bet." Arla laughed and Dean couldn't believe how much better he felt despite the dismal situation. She said, "Behave and I'll come back when I can to let you know how…"

"No. Listen, just...just stay with him. I'm fine. Send a nurse with an update or something," Dean said, desperate to make her understand. If _he_ couldn't be there, Dean had a feeling that Arla was the only person who might be able to get through to Sam. "Don't leave him. He…" _he's scared,_ "he's going to need you."

She nodded again and said, "I'm going to take care of him. Of _both_ of you."

"I trust you," Dean said as she headed out the door.

He closed his eyes, realizing that Arla might be the last person on the planet that he actually _could_ trust.

* * *

Arla was torn.

 _If only there were two of me,_ she thought, not for the first time. Raising twin girls had provided her with a multitude of reasons that having a twin of her own would have been handy. And right now it would be good to be able to be in two places at once. Because the fear in Dean's eyes left her wanting to stay with him and make sure he was going to be ok. But she knew that the fear in his eyes wasn't for himself; it was all for his little brother. And she knew the only way to even hope to alleviate some of that fear was to do exactly what he was begging her to do.

 _Take care of Sam_.

So Arla walked out of his room even though it killed her. She didn't have any trouble finding where they'd taken Sam. Just as Dean's room had recently been, the treatment room three doors down was now the center of professional hurry. Arla stepped just inside the door where she could be immediately available should her assistance be needed, yet still out of the way of the staff. Marcy was across the room about to start an IV, but she looked up with a quick acknowledgement of Arla's presence.

Staying where she was, Arla pulled out her phone and saw she'd missed a text from Tommy. _Arriving around ten. You still with the boys?_

She quickly replied _Come to the hospital._ And then her attention was drawn back to the scene before her and she chewed her lip nervously as she watched the ER staff at work.

Sam wasn't moving.

Hadn't so much as twitched since he'd passed out. Watching him go down had been one of the most horrible moments in her life. One of those moments she would kick herself for in years to come. She never should have let him convince her not to put him straight into a hospital bed. As bad as it had been, the worst part had been seeing the fear in Dean's eyes as Sam had gone down.

Returning her thoughts to the present, Arla studied the vital signs on the monitor; they weren't exactly anything to get excited about. Watching his heartbeat was especially concerning. Arla frowned as she picked up on the irregularities on the monitor. Dr. Maguire had picked up on it too, she realized, hearing him call for a STAT EKG along with other labs.

Looking back at her phone, she saw Tommy had texted again. _Are they ok?_

Arla snorted and texted back, _Not hardly. They're both in bad shape._

Watching the nurses as they worked, she knew that it wasn't really a surprise that Sam had dropped. Considering he'd been in shock when she'd first arrived at the cabin, it had been only a matter of time before he went down again. Not having a complete medical history or the records from that hospital worried her to no end. At least Dean had opened up a bit more about that situation. _Better late than never,_ Arla decided, catching Marcy's eye, knowing she needed to let them know what Dean had said about the potential for withdrawal.

 _This is so not good._

* * *

Thirty minutes later, sitting just outside the room as Dr. Maguire updated her on exactly how not good it all was, Arla again cursed what she was coming to understand was genetic Winchester stubbornness.

 _If he'd let me help when I ran into him in the parking lot…_

Once the doctor had left, Arla sat there for a moment, absorbing everything he'd just told her. Taking a deep breath, she knew she needed to go talk to Dean. Texting Tommy one more time, she pushed herself to her feet.

She wasn't looking forward to this conversation at all.

* * *

 **Huge shout out to everyone who helped me get this chapter just right: the ever awesome L.H. the 2nd, Laura's-eyes, cartersdaughter, and Chronic Potterphile! I couldn't have done it without all of you helping me!**

 **Hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! Ch 13 already has 4 pages to it... :) Stay tuned!**


	13. Ch 13: I can be the one you call

**Hi everyone! get ready...this is a long chapter! I wanted to get this up tonight and didn't quite have the chance to reply to all your awesome review...but I will tomorrow! I appreciated every single one of them! Thank you especially to my wonderful guest reviewers! Love hearing from you and, even if I can't send you a personal reply, know that I appreciate your reviews VERY MUCH! Happy reading everyone! :)**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 13: I can be the one you call**_

"Dean?"

He forced his eyes open at the sound of Arla's voice. Blinking away the fog, he tried to focus on her as she walked into the room; annoyance warring with concern. Annoyance that she hadn't listened to him, that she wasn't with Sam, and concern at what that might mean. He was too worn out to have much of a reaction, though. In the time since she'd left earlier, he'd found himself drifting more out than in and his thoughts had been as foggy as his vision. The drugs that pumped through his veins were finally doing their job so at least _something_ was going right.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, barely able to hear his own voice.

Arla shook her head as she reached his bedside. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to come give you an update."

"I asked you to stay with him."

"And I'm going right back," Arla said, pulling a rolling stool up next to the stretcher.

There was an expression on her face that made him nervous despite the fact she said nothing was wrong. Dean pushed himself up against the pillows, not that he got far. Pressing his hand to his sore stomach, he tried to ignore the flare of nausea that even the slight movement caused. Licking his lips, Dean wished he could get a drink of water, but they'd told him no about a dozen times already.

He repeated, "What's wrong?"

"Did Dr. Maguire talk to you about your lab work and what the plan is?"

"I don't give a damn about any of that…"

"Well you should!" Arla's voice wasn't loud, but it was intense. She stared at him and said, "You've got a bleeding ulcer, Dean. You've been bleeding for who knows how long. You could have bled to _death_ in the time it took for you to get over your stubbornness and get to a doctor!"

Dean knew she had a point, but she was missing _his_ point. Quietly, but just as intensely, he said, "It wasn't about me…"

"I know that. I do." Some of the force bled out of her voice now and she sounded tired. "I understand that you were protecting Sam. But some things you can't ignore, no matter how good your reasons are. Thankfully, we got here before you wound up needing a transfusion. Barely. Depending on what the endoscopy reveals, though, you may need surgery."

"Yeah, he said something about that," Dean muttered, not wanting to think about it.

"Did he also talk to you about the fact you're dehydrated and deficient in several vitamins and electrolytes? You haven't been eating right…."

"You have no idea what I've been eating…"

"You're right. But I do know you've been drinking..."

"Did you tell them…"

"I didn't really have to, Dean," Arla said, her eyes bright with either worry or anger. Dean wasn't sure which, but she wasn't happy; _that_ was obvious. "You smell like a distillery. But yes, they asked about alcohol use and I did tell them you've been drinking. They said your blood alcohol level was..."

"That doctor should have kept his mouth shut," he snapped. Dr. Maguire had been rather judgy about his blood alcohol level. And obviously he'd blabbed about it to Arla. _Wasn't there supposed to be something about doctor patient confidentiality?_ "Why's he telling you…"

"Because I told him I'm your aunt." Arla sighed and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. She looked genuinely upset as she said, "I'm sorry, Dean. I am. But they might not have let me in with you boys if I hadn't been family."

"Ok. Yeah. Ok." Dean regulated his breathing and temper.

He was too tired, too weak to be fighting like this. And he hated himself for snapping at her. Arla looked like she was ready to cry and she didn't deserve that considering she'd saved their lives. Again.

Swallowing his pride, he whispered, "Sorry."

"It's ok."

Nothing was ok, but he nodded anyway and asked, "Sam? He awake yet?"

"Not yet."

"Why?" Dean asked, a thousand horrible potential reasons for the way his brother had gone down running through his pounding head.

"He pushed himself too far. He's exhausted."

"That's it?"

Arla rolled her eyes and said, "Of course that's not _it_."

"What'd the doctor say?"

"He's stable right now."

"Right now?"

"He's in rough shape, but he's going to be ok."

"That is _not_ an answer," Dean snapped again despite his best effort not to.

"He's severely dehydrated and his electrolytes were imbalanced," Arla said quickly, sensing his frustration, "It's a good thing we got here when we did."

Dean knew that if Arla had had her way, they would have been here a long time ago and from the look on her face, he knew he should have listened to her. Guessing she wasn't finished, he said, "Keep going."

"They're giving him fluids to help correct the dehydration."

"So that's good."

"Yes."

"But?"

"But because of the electrolyte imbalances, Sam was having some mild arrhythmias."

"What does that mean?" Dean didn't think his mouth could get any drier. But it did. "You're talking about his _heart_ right?"

Arla nodded, "Yes. The fluids are helping to correct the issue."

"So his heart's gonna be ok?"

"Yes. They'll do another EKG to recheck, but correcting the electrolyte imbalance should take care of the issue. He's probably going to be released after a few hours of observation if everything looks ok."

"Then why does it still look like you've got something bad to tell me?" Dean asked, not at all sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Arla leaned closer and said, "It's the result of his toxicology screen."

"Toxicology?"

"Drug screen," Arla explained, "I told his nurse that he'd been recently treated for insomnia so they ran a tox screen. It showed high levels of benzodiazepines."

Dean felt his mouth go dry remembering Sam's words from yesterday.

 _They gave me pills, Dean_. _It was a lot of pills._

He rubbed a hand over his face and asked, "High levels? What's that mean exactly?"

"It means they gave him enough sedatives that it's a minor miracle he's not dead," Arla said softly.

For a moment they fell silent as Dean tried to absorb that. Ice swept over his heart as he thought back to what the doctor in the psych hospital had said; words that Arla had now unknowingly echoed. " _We've pumped him about as full of sedatives as we safely can. So far, he won't go under. I've never seen anything like it."_

Then, she had to go and make it even worse when she added, "Is there any chance Sam has been using street drugs?"

Dean stared at her; completely at a loss. Of all the things he'd expected her to say, that had not been one of them. He rubbed his chest, feeling the panic bubbling up along with the nausea, and asked, "Why are you asking me that? Did something show up to make you think that he..."

"Nothing showed up." Arla shook her head. "I'm just asking because I'm concerned. Given what you've told me he's been going through..."

"No." Dean said firmly, even though his mind was running away with him now that the topic had been mentioned. "He would never do that."

 _Right? He wouldn't have, would he? And how could he have?_ Cursing himself, Dean wracked his brain. He would have noticed something like that! They were always together. He'd had his eye on Sam 24/7 for…

 _Except that one night._

That _one_ night when he'd actually had enough to drink that he'd finally passed out. They'd been running themselves so ragged for so long. After leaving Portland and driving almost a day and a half, they'd found the wreck of Frank Devereaux's camper. After surveying the gory sight inside and feeling like the ground had gone out from under them once again, Dean had put his foot on the accelerator and they'd blown through four states before he finally couldn't drive any further. Dean catnapped in the front seat, but it was never a restful sleep. How could it be with Sam wide awake and freaking out every five seconds right next to him? Another day or two of aimless driving had found them both flat out exhausted but too keyed up to rest.

So they'd finally crashed in a random Indiana motel room with half a liquor store of booze and a pizza. Sam had been less than useless by then; Dean hadn't been sure by that point if Sam even knew who he was anymore. He'd pushed the liquor and beer at him and that, at least, Sam had accepted. He wouldn't go near the pizza and Dean didn't have much of an appetite either once Sam had told him in a panicked voice exactly what he was seeing on that pizza.

He hadn't meant to pass out that night, but that had been exactly what had happened. A cool breeze blowing in through the open door was what awakened Dean sometime later to find an empty room. He'd nearly had a heart attack. The nightmare of searching for Sam all night had been bad enough, but now the thought that Sam could well have been out there taking drugs from someone on the street made him lightheaded. Some of the shock must have shown on his face because Arla's expression softened.

"If he _had_ taken anything," Arla said, "It's out of his system by now. I was just wondering about the potential of drug abuse given what you've told me about what he was going through."

Nodding, Dean filed away the topic for a day in the future when Sam could actually carry on a complete conversation again. _If that day ever comes._ He let his head rest back against the pillow and tried to focus on Arla even though he wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

"What's more concerning," Arla went on, completely spoiling his plan for sleeping anytime soon, "is the withdrawal from the benzodiazepines. Given the level still in his bloodstream, he should receive a tapering dose to wean him off it and control the side effects."

Dean's brain felt frozen, dull, slow. It took a minute for him to process what she'd said. He asked, "So you're saying that...he _is_ withdrawing?"

"Yes."

The air seemed really thin all of a sudden. Dean fisted his hands in the blanket. All too easily he could remember the last time Sam had been in withdrawal. _This is different! This isn't demon blood…_

"Dean?" Arla's voice drew him out of reliving that particular nightmare.

Shaking his head, Dean thought about how difficult it had been to get Sam to take any medications already and said, "He's not gonna want to take anything."

"I realize that, but with what he'd been given," Arla said, her concern coming through clearly, "there's still the risk of seizures along with the other symptoms he's been experiencing."

Dean stared at her. _Seizures?_ He felt like instead of dodging a bullet, they'd jumped in front of a nuclear missile. "He wasn't even there that long."

"I know. Sometimes it doesn't take long; especially with high dosages. It's a risk, Dean, not a sure thing. He's been off the meds for two days already so he's probably already been suffering through the worst of the withdrawal. But it's still a concern."

"I...we're gonna have to talk to him about it," Dean said, feeling short of breath again despite the oxygen. The accusatory voice in the back of his head screamed, _he said it felt like withdrawal! He told you what was happening!_ Refocusing, he said, "Don't...don't let anyone force him, ok? He's had enough of that lately."

"I'll make sure Sam understands what's going on. I want it to be his decision, but he needs to understand what it it could mean if he says no." Arla glanced up as a nurse walked into the room.

Dean couldn't even tell if it were the hot one or the squinty-eyed one. At this point, he felt so close to unconsciousness that he wasn't sure they'd even need to knock him out for the procedure. _It was just a procedure, right? Surgery was...wasn't necessarily needed. Right?_ He couldn't remember. And even though the nurse and Arla were chattering about it two feet away from him, Dean figured it didn't matter what he knew or thought about the subject.

If the procedure would get rid of the pain in his stomach and let him get back to what he was supposed to be doing, then he was all for it. And if he could be unconscious for even a half hour he'd call that a win. He was to tired to even begin to think about what the plan for _after_ would be. Arla was talking to him again, but before he could remember how to speak, she was gone and he was squeezing his eyes closed and hanging on for dear life as the world around him began to move. Or maybe it was _him_ moving.

Roller coasters had never been a problem, nor had speeding twenty miles over the limit. But whoever was driving the stretcher must have been a jet pilot because Dean could have sworn he was flying. And that thought alone was enough to have him heaving up his guts again despite the nice drugs that had been doing a fair job of managing the nausea and pain up till that moment.

By the time everything stopped moving, he felt a new warm rush of something flowing through his veins. As he slipped easily into drug-induced sleep, Dean had a passing hope that when he woke up he'd find that the past year had been nothing more than a nightmare.

* * *

Arla made it back to Sam's side before he woke up. _Barely._

On her way back from Dean's room, Marcy had caught her and given a quick update before heading to another patient's room. Thankful that nothing had happened while she'd been with Dean, Arla quietly walked into the dimly lit room. She intended to sit down and text Tommy, but didn't get the chance. At first, she thought Sam was sleeping soundly, but just as she reached his side, his eyes flew open.

"No!"

Arla jumped even though he'd only whispered the word. He looked straight at her, but it was obvious that, whatever he was seeing, it wasn't her. She held up her hands to show him she meant no harm and said, "Sam, it's me."

It took effort, but after a second, he focused on her and she guessed he was disoriented from exhaustion and sleep. She hoped he wasn't hallucinating. He struggled until he was halfway sitting up and searched the room before flopping back against the pillow.

"Where?" he asked, looking back at her.

Arla took a quick glance at the monitors, then back to him. She said, "You're in the hospital."

Instead of calming him, which she hadn't really expected it would, the revelation only sent his heart rate skyrocketing as he struggled once again to get upright. He gave up quickly, though, and she watched in confusion as he grabbed his left hand, squeezing the palm of his hand hard enough that she was honestly afraid he was going to break his own hand. Arla wanted to stop him, but she had a feeling that would be a bad idea. Whatever he was doing, it had the appearance of a coping mechanism and if that was how he coped, she didn't dare stop him.

As he looked around the room again, he said more to himself than to her, "Dean. He's hurt. They...he...I think he cut Dean open…"

"No one cut him open, Sam." Arla felt a chill run down her spine. Partially it was his words, partially it was the absolute horror in his eyes. Whatever he thought he saw, it had been vivid and real to him.

"He...I saw him," Sam continued, searching the room for an unseen threat, still squeezing his hand, "and he had Dean...there was so much blood…" His voice broke and he was shaking his head against the pillow, his hands reaching out until he caught her arm, pulling her closer. "I have to find him before he kills Dean!"

Arla let him pull her closer as she put her free hand against his chest, gently pressing him down against the pillow. She said, "Dean's fine. Are you listening to me? He's fine. Whatever, whoever, you thought you saw, it was a dream. That's all."

"It wasn't a dream, couldn't have been…" Sam was muttering to himself, eyes closed, head still shaking, "he was right there...and...I can't remember!" He opened his eyes again, breathing in short gasps as he stared at her and said, "We were hunting...something and then...no, it wasn't...it was _him_ …he was back even though Dean said he was gone."

Whoever this _him_ was that Sam kept bringing up, Arla knew he was probably the main source of Sam's issues. _The source of the hallucinations_. She realized Sam had no idea whether what he thought he had seen happen to Dean had been an actual hunt or a hallucination. And if this was the sort of thing he had been hallucinating, someone cutting Dean open, she could all too easily understand why he was having some lasting issues. She couldn't do anything about what had happened before, but she could draw him back to reality now.

Throwing caution to the wind, she reached out until she had a hand on each side of his face. He didn't fight her but his eyes communicated his fear. Holding him still so he was looking at just her and not the unfamiliar ER room, Arla said, "Sam. You need to calm down."

His hand tightened on her arm, but he was meeting her eyes. She was trying to figure out what she could say to get him through this, when he said, "I need to find Dean. I...I don't remember where we are…I don't know..."

"You know me," Arla cut him off, trying to refocus him.

Sam frowned but his grip on her arm relaxed a little.  
"Sam?" She pressed when he didn't acknowledge her. She felt him shaking his head slightly and she said, a little more desperately now, "You _do_. You know me. Remember the haunted motel? Christmas Eve? You boys were sick and Tommy and I helped you and then you helped a ghost named Raquel. Do you remember Raquel?"

"Raquel," he whispered. He frowned, but he was thinking about it.

"Yes. Raquel. You boys helped free her from a…"

"Curse?"

"Yes." Arla felt a stirring of hope. Searching her memories for something else that he might be able to latch onto, she said, "What about New Year's Day? Remember how Dean made you get up even though you wanted to sleep? He didn't want to miss the parade and the bowl games?"

Sam's breathing was settling and he nodded, "But he fell asleep…"

"Right in the middle of the first quarter." Arla smiled, relaxing her grip on him. She sat down on the edge of the stretcher and brushed his sweaty hair out of his face. "You remember that?"

"Yeah." Sam closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open, his hand finally releasing her arm. He asked, "Arla?"

"Yes."

He released a heavy sigh as if he'd been holding his breath the entire time instead of nearly hyperventilating. Sam blinked slowly like he was on the verge of sleep, but didn't close his eyes. He asked, "We're at the hospital?"

"Yes."

"Dean?"

"He's ok." Arla knew she needed to word everything very carefully. She didn't want to mention bleeding or surgery or much of anything, in fact. She said, "The doctor is checking to see why he's been so sick. He's going to be settled upstairs for the night."

Sam nodded, swallowing hard, his face creased with pain as he said, "I remember. Seeing him. Before."

"That's good."

He glanced around the room and she held her breath when he caught sight of the IV fluids. But he didn't react other than to look back at her and say wearily, "I don't want to be here."

Arla's heart ached for him. She took another chance and gently touched his arm. He flinched, but didn't pull away so she didn't move her hand. She said, "I know you don't. The doctor wants to keep you here for a little longer for observation. You've been under a lot of stress and your body needs some time to recover."

Sam looked back at the IV fluids, then at the IV site. He said, "Did they...give me anything?"

"Only the fluids to help with the dehydration," Arla said, keeping it simple, but not lying. "No other medications."

"They think I'm crazy."

He seemed so resigned. Arla blinked back the tears and squeezed his arm as she said, "No one thinks you're crazy. You're _not_ crazy. Do you hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Ok."

"What's gonna happen?" Sam asked, his eyes barely open, words sliding together.

"We're going to get you boys better. That's all you need to know. I'm going to take care of the rest. Trust me?"

"Yeah."

Arla breathed a sigh of relief. She honestly hadn't been sure he would trust her at this point.

Sam studied her for a moment, then asked, "How long do I have to stay here?"

"A few hours. You need to rest and then the doctor is going to do another EKG." She wished she hadn't said that, but Sam didn't even seem to notice. And he didn't ask for an explanation so she went on, "If everything looks ok, we'll get you up to see your brother."

"Ok."

Knowing he was close to falling asleep, Arla asked quickly, "Do you want some water before you go back to sleep?"

"Mmhm." He breathed out, eyes closed. Managing a sip, he shot a wary glance around the room before looking back at her as she set the cup aside. "You're sure that he's not here?"

Arla didn't care who _he_ was. She said, "He's not here, Sam. And he isn't coming back."

"Dean's ok?"

"I just checked on him. He was worried about you."

Sam nodded, squeezing his eyes closed.

"Sam? Are you in pain?" Arla asked softly, already knowing the answer was yes.

"Yeah."

"What hurts?"

"Everything."

"I can talk to the doctor; get something to help. You don't need to be in pain."

"No."

"Sam."

"Just let me sleep. I don't want anything." He forced his eyes open again and said, "Don't let them give me anything. Promise you won't. No more pills. Please. They wouldn't stop giving me pills."

She didn't want to promise him. But there was no way she was forcing anything on him. So she nodded and said, "I promise. Now try to get a little sleep, ok? It'll be better when you wake up."

Sam stared at her for a long moment, then asked, "Will you…"

"Still be here?" she interrupted with a smile.

"Yeah."

"Yes. I will. Is that ok?"

He nodded. A moment later he was asleep and Arla took her first easy breath since she'd walked into their cabin hours earlier.

* * *

He paused outside the little ER room and studied her.

She looked tired. Which he could understand. There hadn't been much chance for her to give him a lot of details, but Tommy knew the fact they were in the hospital instead of their guest room meant the boys were in a bad way. He'd been checking his phone constantly, but except for a few sporadic and brief messages, she hadn't told him much. Obviously she'd been busy.

Arla was sitting on the opposite side of the stretcher, elbows braced on the edge, chin resting on her folded hands as she stared at Sam. Even from where he stood, Tommy could tell he was in rough shape. Wishing he could have been here sooner, he took a step closer. When her eyes didn't immediately turn to look at him, Tommy knew exactly how worried, and tired, Arla was.

"Honey," he whispered, not wanting to wake Sam, or startle her.

The soft word drew her attention instantly and the smile that lit her tired face was the best thing he'd seen in two days. It blew him away that she still looked at him like that; that she'd _ever_ looked at him like that. No one had needed to tell him that he'd married above himself. He'd known it the moment he'd first seen her in that hospital and she'd stitched him up while tearing him a new one for being so stupid in the first place.

"Tommy." She was in his arms before he'd even registered she'd moved.

He kissed the top of her head as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Tightening his hold on her, he said, "Missed you."

"Missed you too," she whispered, tilting her head up.

"Long day?" Tommy leaned down for a proper kiss, only mildly disappointed that their reunion was in an ER under the current circumstances. He'd had something more romantic in mind. _A lot more romantic..._

Parting the kiss, Arla reached up and slapped his cheek gently, a grin on her face as she whispered, "Stop undressing me in your mind, Thomas Pender."

"You know me so well, babe." He grinned, letting his hand drop a bit lower on her back.

"Stop it!" She giggled, pulling herself free from his grasp with a quick look at Sam. Arla pulled him back into the hall. Just far enough that they could talk a bit more freely yet she could still keep Sam in sight. Giving him another quick kiss, she shook her head and said, "This was a very long day."

"I bet it was. Good thing I'm a wonderful husband."

Arla raised an eyebrow and asked, "What did you do?"

"Bought you chocolate." He reached down to the bench next to the door where he'd set his purchases down. Presenting her with a chocolate rose, he grinned and said, "I also have donuts, two bottles of Dr. Pepper and a bag of M&Ms. Everything we need for an all-nighter. Just like old times."

Tommy saw the tears and pulled her back into his arms. He asked, "It's been bad, hasn't it?"

She nodded against his chest, looking down at the chocolate rose. She said, "If I wasn't afraid your head would pop I might tell you that you're pretty much a perfect husband."

He snorted and said, "Were you always this sappy, Dr. Pender? Or is it a new thing? Perfect, huh? Guess all these years of practice have paid off."

"I'll say the practice pays off about the time you start remembering to do the dishes." Arla looked up, rolling her eyes and blinking away the tears. She smiled, "I'm not sorry you left the conference early."

"Me neither. Want to catch me up?"

Arla nodded. "Let's sit down here. I don't want to go far in case he wakes up again."

Tommy settled the bag of refreshments on the floor next to the bench as they sat down. Arla made sure she was shifted where she could keep a close eye on Sam. Once they sat down, she took a deep breath, shook her head and said, "One day, one day I'd really like to meet these boys on when they're having a _good_ day."

"I hear you." He smiled. "What'd they do this time?"

"Honestly? I'm still not entirely sure." Arla brushed her hair back from her eyes, taking a quick peek back into the room. She said, "I haven't managed to get the whole story…"

"Probably never will."

"Probably not. Long, full of holes, story short? Dean's got an ulcer."

Tommy raised an eyebrow, "Well that's not what I was expecting."

"Too ordinary?" Arla smiled, then covered a yawn with her hand.

"Yeah. I figured, you know, a vampire had taken a chunk out of him." He grinned and held his hands up like claws, "Or a manticore had clipped him with a poison dart."

Arla laughed and said, "Promise me you're not going to start geeking out when they feel better and ask them how many of your favorite imaginary creatures are real?"

"Scouts honor."

"You weren't a Boy Scout anymore than Dean was." Arla smacked him in the shoulder.

Tommy groaned, "And I'll never get over the fact I didn't get to see you in your cute little Girl Scout get up."

"It wasn't a 'get-up,' you crazy man. Do you want to hear this or do you want to go sit with the security guard and chat with _him_ all night?"

"I'd rather chat with you all night." He pulled her closer and whispered, "Or do other things with you all night."

"Tommy!" She giggled again and pushed him away. "Be serious."

Glad to see some of the worry gone from her eyes, he knew his mission had been accomplished. He took her hand and said, "How bad is it?"

Stealing another glance at Sam, Arla said, "Dean's going to be ok. I ran up there a few minutes ago and he's settled in and sleeping. He doesn't need surgery. It would have been better to have caught it earlier, of course. But he's stable."

"Uh huh," Tommy narrowed his eyes, sensing she hadn't told him everything yet. "What else?"

And that worry was right back in her eyes as she said softly, "It's _everything_ else. Whatever's been going on in their lives, it's been bad, Tommy. And it's taken it's toll on both of them. He's been drinking."

"And when you say drinking, I know you mean _drinking_."

"Yes. I don't know anything for sure, but I'd say he's been drinking to excess."

"They live a hard life…"

"It's going to be a lot harder with a pickled liver!"

Tommy could feel the tension radiating off her. Squeezing her hand, he said, "True."

Arla nodded wordlessly, her gaze once again returning to the room behind them. He asked, "What's going on with Sam?"

"Dehydration and not eating landed him here along with a near overdose of sedatives," Arla said, looking back at him. "Again, I don't entirely know what happened, but Dean said that he's been through some terrible stuff. He'd been hallucinating."

"Hallucinating?"

"Yes. Don't ask me how or why, but from what little I've seen," she shivered, "it must have been terrible."

Tommy frowned, "So he's not hallucinating anymore?"

"Not as far as we know."

For the next few minutes he listened in shock as she told him everything she'd learned so far. It was overwhelming and he couldn't quite wrap his brain around any of it. Like that moment, so many years ago, standing in an abandoned motel room watching a girl go up in flames, Tommy found himself completely at a loss.

"This is so much more than a virus or a concussion," Arla said softly.

Tommy had to agree with here on that. Drawing her closer again, he put his arm around her shoulders and said, "It is. But that doesn't mean it can't be healed. They're getting the medical attention they need right now, but they're going to need more than a hospital stay to get them back out there fighting the fight. We did it before and I'm betting we can do it again."

"They're different people, Tommy. I don't think mothering them or giving them some good food is going to fix this."

"Don't be so sure. It might be exactly what is going to fix this." He kissed her again, then asked, "Speaking of which. Did you bake a pie?"

Arla laughed softly and said, "Yes. I baked a pie before the power went out and Sam called."

"Good. I think that your pie can cure just about anything. And I think that whatever your pie can't cure, we can cure. They may have grown up a bit…"

"More than a bit, honey."

"...but they're still the same boys at heart. Deep down. Under all the hell they've been through, they're still the same kids that saved our town from monsters that no one would believe existed. They're still the same kids who took out the garbage and helped with the dishes and never gave up on each other." He tilted her chin up and saw the growing conviction in her eyes. Tommy smiled and said, "We just gotta dig down and find them under the hallucinations and alcohol and all the other crap that's hit them. Right?"

"Right." Arla nodded. She smiled and said, "How about you give me a Dr. Pepper and a donut and we pretend this is our romantic dinner that we were going to have. Then we can split up. You go sit with Dean and I'll stay with Sam. I don't want him to wake up alone, or without me. I think I finally got through to him earlier, but I'm sure he's going to be disoriented again when he wakes up. If he doesn't see me, I'm not sure how he'll react."

"Deal." Tommy reached for the bag and handed her a bottle. Leaning closer for another kiss, he said, "But we don't have to _pretend_ this is our romantic dinner. This is the most romantic dinner I can remember."

"You never did have a good memory." Arla patted his cheek, then took a sip of the soda.

Tommy winked at her and said, "What are you talking about? I remember sitting in the ER many times eating donuts and drinking Dr. Pepper when you were on your breaks. I also remember all the fun we always had after dinner…"

"Tommy!" She laughed.

* * *

Sam couldn't remember where he was. He tried to focus, tried to listen to what was happening around him. The sounds were all wrong. _Not a motel_ , that much he was sure of. The sounds were too fuzzy to make out, though. They sounded wrong. _He_ felt wrong. Cold and hot all at once, lightheaded and hurting everywhere.

He felt drugged and groggy and the worst part was that he felt like this wasn't a new thing. It was as if he'd been feeling this way for years. _Centuries,_ a voice whispered. Shivering, Sam forced his heavy eyes open and stared up at the stark white ceiling as if it could possibly answer all the questions in his head.

"Sam?"

Tilting his head slightly, he realized someone was sitting next to the stretcher. It took half a dozen tries to keep his eyes open long enough to focus on the person. _Not Dean_. That was the first concrete thought he managed to form. And that thought was followed immediately by _where is Dean_. _Something happened to Dean_ came quickly on the heels of the previous thought and then he felt a hand on his arm.

"It's ok, calm down, take some nice slow breaths…"

 _Arla._ Sam recognized her voice and her face gradually came into focus as she talked to him and squeezed his arm. Out of breath and not sure why, he had to make a conscious effort to slow his breathing. Why did it feel like he'd just run a marathon? Air seemed in short supply and he was pushing himself up, desperate to catch his breath.

A hand was on his shoulder, pressing him back against the pillow and he was tired enough that he didn't bother to fight it. Instead, he did as he was told and slowed his breathing.

"Good." Arla smiled and her face was slowly becoming less blurry. She said, "How are you doing now, Sam?"

That was _so_ not the important question. He swallowed hard against the fear and asked, "Where's Dean?"

"Upstairs settled in a room resting."

A bit of the fear started to ebb at her words. Vaguely, he remembered talking to her sometime earlier. _Today? Yesterday? What day_ is _it?_ Shaking his head at his tumbling thoughts, he asked, "So he's ok?"

"Yes. He's stable and resting. It's going to take him awhile to get back to full strength but he's going to be fine."

Nodding, Sam wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep and just forget about everything, but he knew there would be no getting back to sleep now. The cold of the hospital was biting his skin and crawling through his mind. He could smell it and the room started to close in on him. Forcing himself not to panic, he asked, "You were here? Earlier? I didn't imagine it?"

She nodded.

"We talked?"

"We did."

"About football?" He struggled to remain focused.

"Yes." Arla's smile was exactly like he remembered it. She went on, "We talked about the time you boys were in Arizona and stayed with us."

"Yeah. I remember that." Lifting a heavy hand to rub at his eyes, he caught sight of the vital signs monitor and the bag of IV fluids. Yet another reminder that he was in a hospital. The need to _get out_ began to pull him back toward the rising tide of panic.

Again, he tried to push himself up and this time he actually managed to get to a semi-sitting position although it left him dizzy and wavering. Arla stood up and adjusted something on the stretcher until he felt the pillows behind him again. She nudged him in the shoulder and that was really all it took for him to fall back against the stretcher. At least he was sitting up now.

One step closer to the exit.

"Sam? What's going on?"

He rubbed at his chest as it started to tighten again. The sight of that IV in his arm made him twitchy and his fingers rubbed at the clear tape holding it in place. _One quick rip and it will be gone._ All he said, though, was, "I'm ready to leave."

Arla didn't fight him on it, which surprised him. She said, "I know you are. How about you try something to drink and eat first."

His already rolling stomach just about jumped out of his mouth at the very thought. Tightening his jaw, he shook his head and closed his eyes. Mercifully, the room remained silent and after a few more seconds, he was able to get his eyes open again. Arla had retaken her seat and was studying him with obvious concern. He wished she'd go away.

"I want to see Dean," Sam said, hating how quiet his voice was.

"I know. But you need to eat something first."

It sounded as bad this time around as it had the first time she'd mentioned it but he knew she had a point. The IV fluids were doing their job because he didn't feel like he was going to pass out. Even so, he felt the weakness in his entire body and knew he wasn't going to get far no matter how much he wanted to bolt from the room; from the hospital. So he nodded.

Arla reached for something on the bedside table and said, "How about a sip of water?"

He took the styrofoam cup from her and took a long drink. The water soothed his burning throat and bone-dry mouth. It didn't do his stomach any favors but stayed down nonetheless. He let the cup rest on the stretcher next to his leg when his hand began to shake too badly to hold it up.

"I'm going to let the nurse know you're awake," Arla said, "and see about getting you something to eat. Do you think you can try some jello? Maybe some toast?"

Shrugging, he forced himself to take another drink. One of the last things he wanted to do was eat anything, but he wasn't going to take any chances. So far she hadn't said one word to protest his plan to see Dean and he was willing to do whatever it took to get out of the ER. By the time the nurse had been in, checking over the monitors and asking him way too many questions, he was exhausted. He stared without interest at the jello and toast on the tray in front of him.

"Just try a little, Sam."

He looked up at Arla briefly before reaching for the piece of toast. It took all his concentration to remember that it was a piece of toast and not... _something else_. After finishing half of it, he looked back up at Arla ready to ask her to go check on Dean. He didn't get the chance before a man in scrubs came through the door.

The doctor.

Who spent the next five minutes talking about things Sam didn't want to hear about. He kept eating the toast so he didn't have to participate in the conversation. Arla seemed to be doing a fine job of listening to whatever the doctor was saying so he left her to it. Only when the doctor said something about staying overnight did Sam decide he needed to speak up.

"No."

The doctor looked at him, a frown on his face. He said, "Sam, it might be for the best. Like I said, you've had a lot of medications in your system and even though you've been resting now for a couple hours, you're far from well. The hydration has helped but…"

"I'm fine." Sam pushed the tray back, sitting up more in the stretcher. Meeting the doctor's eyes, he said, "Get whatever paperwork you need and I'll sign it. I'm done here."

Both Arla and the doctor began talking again and it was overwhelming, but Sam refused to give in to the panic he felt. He needed to get away from the doctor and make sure Dean was really ok. The room fell silent and he looked up in surprise. They were gone. Good. He didn't care why they'd left or where they'd gone. The important thing was they were gone. He shoved the sheet away and swung his legs over the edge of the stretcher.

Holding onto the rail, Sam squeezed his eyes closed and prayed he wouldn't pass out.

After a few touch and go moments, the spinning sensation died down and he managed to force his eyes open again. The room was still empty. He glanced at the IV in his arm and was a heartbeat away from pulling it out.

"Don't you dare."

Sam looked up as Arla came toward him. She said, "Wait, Sam. Wait, ok?"

"Wait for what?" he asked, feeling a lot more irritable than he sounded. He just sounded tired.

"Wait for the nurse, or me, to help."

"I'm leaving…" he said, not even realizing he was peeling back the tape on the IV site until most of it was on the floor.

"Yes. You are," Arla nodded, yanking drawers open until she found whatever she was looking for. She turned back to him and he thought _she_ looked a little irritable too as she said, "The doctor is finishing your discharge paperwork, so settle down and give us a minute to work."

He didn't let go of the rail, allowed her take his other arm and ease the IV out, quickly covering the area with the band-aid she'd pulled from the drawer. It felt better already; not having that _thing_ under his skin. Looking up at her, he wanted to thank her, but the underlying tension still running through him robbed him of his ability to make polite conversation and all he said was, "Need my boots."

Arla nodded and moved away. A second later she dropped his boots in front of him and he was shoving his feet into them as she asked, "Did you listen to anything the doctor said?"

He hadn't, not really. Sam said, "Yeah."

"Sam, I know you're worried about your brother, but you know how bad you've been feeling?"

Glancing up at her, Sam waited for her to continue.

She sighed and said, "Part of it was the dehydration, but it's also the withdrawal from the meds they were giving you in the other hospital."

Somehow, hearing it confirmed like that made it all seem that much worse. His stomach churned dangerously and he really wished she'd shut up. But she didn't.

"You've probably gone through the worst of it now…"

Sam almost laughed. _You have no idea. This has been a cakewalk compared to the last withdrawal I went through._

"...but there's still a lot of risk associated with coming off this kind of medication cold turkey. There's still a chance you could have a seizure."

"It's been days." Sam shook his head, "I'm fine."

Arla shook her head. "You're not fine. And even if you don't have a seizure...you're still going to be miserable…"

Sam had heard enough. He'd been miserable before. This was nothing compared to that. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and, even if he wavered a bit, didn't fall over. Looking down at her concerned face, he asked, "Where's his room?"

"I'll take you up there, just let me get the paperwork and…"

He ignored her and started for the door. One step outside the door was when everything went a bit grey and he found himself sitting down without realizing how it had happened. The muddle of voices was back, but it was easier this time to pick apart what they were saying.

"I still would rather he…"

"I know, Dr. Maguire." Arla's voice was calm, sure. "I appreciate your concern. I'll make sure he takes care of himself."

Sam didn't pay attention to much after that until he heard something about prescriptions. Looking up, he said, "I don't want anything."

"I'll take those," Arla said, and Sam heard her folding up some papers.

He would have started arguing about that but then he was moving and he realized he was in a wheelchair again and that seemed like a much more important thing to argue about at the moment. He said, "I don't need…"

Movement stopped and Arla was right in front of him and she didn't look happy at all. She leaned down and said, "You do need it. If you want to get up to see your brother, this is how it's going to happen. You're not up to walking that far."

She straightened and then they were moving again and Sam had the good sense to keep his mouth shut this time.

* * *

Arla had a headache.

She rubbed her forehead as she stared at the numbers on the elevator as they went up to the fourth floor. Sam had been completely silent since she'd confronted him about the wheelchair. She felt bad for practically yelling at him, but at least he'd stopped fighting at every turn. It wasn't that she didn't have sympathy for what he was going through; because she did. But she was frustrated with both of them for their stubbornness. And she was frustrated with herself for being frustrated with them.

She knew what their lives were like; as well as any outsider could, she guessed. What right did she have to act like she understood? To boss them around? None. Even so, there was no way she could simply stand by and watch them run themselves into the ground anymore than they already had.

The elevator door opened and she glanced down at Sam. He was slumped to one side, his head resting on his hand as he leaned against the armrest. Doubt filled her mind as she pushed the wheelchair down the hall. _I should never have let him bully his way out of the ER. He should be monitored and treated…_

She shook herself out of her thoughts as a nurse on her way to answer a call light down the hall brushed by them. Refocusing, Arla headed to the room they'd settled Dean in hours earlier. Even though Dean had made her promise not to leave Sam, she'd run up to his room for a brief peek and a quick chat with the doctor once they'd told her he'd been settled. Dean had been sound asleep, drugged and comfortable and completely unaware she'd been there. Arla had gone back to the ER feeling a little bit better knowing that Dean was stable. Once Tommy had arrived and taken over keeping an eye on Dean, she'd felt even better.

Entering the room, she saw Tommy was still sitting in the armchair on the far side of the bed. She held up a cautionary hand and he stayed where he was. Last thing they needed right now was to startle Sam. Not that Sam was paying attention to anything other than the still form in the bed. She pushed the wheelchair close to the bed and said softly, "He's probably going to sleep most of the night."

Sam nodded.

She glanced at the couch and saw that Tommy had already made it up with the bedding. She blew him a kiss, which he caught with a cheeky grin and a wink. Looking back at Sam, she found him sitting in exactly the same position but now his eyes were closed.

Smiling a little, she touched his shoulder and said, "Time for you to get some sleep, Sam."

He nodded again and she was surprised that he wasn't fighting her on this. Guiding him to the couch, Arla could feel him trembling. He kicked off his boots and immediately lay down. She pulled the blankets up over him and was about to walk away when she felt a cold hand on her arm.

"Sam?" she asked, prepared to get him anything he needed.

"Thank you," he whispered, then closed his eyes, his hand dropping to his chest.

Arla smiled and said, "You're welcome," even though he was already sound asleep.

* * *

 **Well! This was a WHOPPER of a chapter! :) Probably could have split it up a bit but hope you don't mind. I'm going out of town and may be a bit delayed on the next chapter so hopefully this tides you over. I'm visiting my friend DamonsGirl82 and we're hoping to start posting our story "The Flames of Ocracoke." It is a sequel to our story "Ring Around the Roses." It's been a couple years since we posted the first story, but we've been trying desperately to get this sequel posted. The story's been complete since December but we've been editing and proofing. So you may see that pop up this weekend at some point! It is a good old case fic, but I'll warn you...it is a sequel and does have some love interests for the boys and I totally know that's not always popular. :) It's our fun little project though, and I think the story is pretty great even if you don't like the romantic interests so hope you might check it out! But I also get that you might not want to so don't feel pressured to read it if it's not your thing! Just wanted to warn you if you follow me...that might be what pops up next. But that story is 100% done and not taking writing time away from this one so no worries. ;)**

 **Thanks SO MUCH FOR READING! You guys are all the BEST!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Hi! So I knew July was going to be an INSANE month. And it has been let me tell you. Two weeks ago, I flew out to see my bestie and my second flight was cancelled so she drove 5 hrs overnight to pick me up. We never really recovered from the sleep deprivation but still had a great time. My laptop died in the middle of all of this and I had to buy a new one while I was out there with her. Then it was back to work...and a week of overtime no less...then I drove to Chicago to see my friend who has 4 kids under 5 years and let me tell you, sharing a bed with a wiggly 2 year old is a great way to ensure you don't sleep at all. Two nights of that. Then was supposed to spend this past week resting and relaxing camping with the folks. My car decided to join in the fun of July and give up the ghost. Bought a new car, so not in the plans. My folks SUV had a flat tire the day my dad had a follow up MD appt (oh yeah, he had to have surgery the day i was flying out to see my friend go figure). To top it all off...wound up sick. Came home from camping early and have been laying around feeling like utter crap for the past two days.**

 **I'm never taking a vacation again! Lol! They're bad for your health! (or maybe it was the utter lack of sleep and eating junk food for three weeks that did it...idk) ;)**

 **Needless to say, this poor chapter has had a rough road! It's been composed on a desktop, a laptop, a chromebook, my iPhone, using microsoft word, google docs, google keep, and notepad. I have never stopped working on this through everything, but it just has been a battle to give it the attention it needed. I can't post if I don't feel like it's worth reading and it's taken this long to get polished up and ready to share. Sorry for the extreme delay...i have HATED myself every single day for not posting. Thank you for your patience!**

 **PS...the other story i'm posting...it is complete. Just to reassure you guys that I am NOT sacrificing time from this story to work on that one! I know at least one guest was concerned about that. :) If I post to that one it's me simply throwing the doc onto the website and hitting post lol. And I haven't even hardly had time to do that lately haha!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 14:**_ _ **There's a cage locked around my heart**_

"We're out of snacks."

Arla rubbed her eyes and glanced at Tommy. He held up the empty box of donuts and presented her with his most pathetic expression. Despite the early hour, and lack of donuts, he looked a lot fresher and more awake then she felt. Feeling a pang of jealousy at his continued ability to weather all nighters, Arla waved a finger and whispered, "Hush. Don't you dare wake them up."

Tommy grinned but kept his voice low, "I'll go get more coffee. Yes?"

"Yes please."

It had been a long night and she didn't anticipate that the day ahead would be any different, so another cup of coffee was a necessity. She took a quick peek at both of the boys, satisfied herself that they were both still asleep, then watched Tommy quietly gather the remnants of their late night snacks.

He blew her a kiss as he exited the room with the trash. Standing up to stretch, Arla checked her watch. Just after four. Yawning, she rubbed her neck and took another glance at the boys.

Sam was sound asleep on the couch. As far as she could tell, he hadn't moved an inch since he'd first laid down. He still looked distressed, even in sleep, but she wasn't going to interrupt whatever rest he was able to get. It surprised her that he had managed to sleep at all; let alone this long. Given the way he'd been acting in the ER earlier, she'd expected the sheer exhaustion to drop him for an hour or two, then for him to spend the rest of the night wide awake and anxious. The relief at seeing him continuing to sleep brought a smile to her face. Part of her wanted to pull the covers up over his shoulders, check for fever, and smooth away the worry lines on his forehead, but she didn't dare.

Looking back at Dean, she saw that, unlike his brother, he was awake. She wondered if their voices had disturbed him or if the meds had worn off. Either way, he was awake now. Even in the room, lit only with dim, tangential lighting, the discomfort was obvious in the way he had a hand pressed to his stomach, while his red-rimmed eyes searched the room. He caught sight of her and Arla hurried over despite the flush of embarrassment, _fever?,_ that swept over his pale face.

Reaching for the basin, Arla got it under his mouth just before his stomach rebelled. One hand on his shoulder to provide support, Arla held the basin for him because he never made an attempt to reach for it. By the time he finished, he'd brought up little more than spit and bile, but the effort left him as exhausted as if he'd run a marathon. Arla almost dropped the basin as he collapsed sideways. Setting the basin aside, she caught his shoulders and eased him back against the pillow; she could feel the fever as she settled him back and he curled into himself.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" He flopped listlessly against the pillow and blinked slowly as he looked up at her.

"I'm going to get the nurse." Arla waited for the inevitable argument but it never came. Dean merely nodded and Arla hit the button on the call light; concern tripling at his response. She asked, "Feeling pretty bad?"

"Yeah." His voice was hoarse and his hand shook as he raised it to rub his eyes. "Where's Sam?"

 _One track mind_. Arla smiled and pointed to the other side of the room. She watched the relief immediately appear in his eyes once he caught sight of his brother.

"He's sleeping?" The hand rubbing at his eyes stopped mid-rub. Dean lowered his hand and stared at his brother like he couldn't quite grasp what he was seeing.

"Yes."

"He ok?" Dean tore his gaze from his brother and pinned her with the question.

Arla knew she had to tread carefully; 'ok' was a very generic term and she didn't know if it would be the one she'd choose to use regarding Sam's condition if she had other options. But Dean needed to know something and she needed to minimize his worry so she said, "He's been comfortable for about four hours now."

Dean nodded again, closing his eyes. _I guess that worked,_ Arla thought to herself, watching him.

A few minutes later and Heidi, the night nurse, walked in, only turning on a small light rather than the overhead light. Arla exchanged a smile with the nurse as she introduced herself to Dean and began her assessment. She said, "I can see you're not feeling very well this morning, Dean. Still feeling sick to your stomach?"

"Bucket of puke not a good enough clue for ya?" Dean remarked, shooting her a glance out of the corner of his eyes before closing them again.

The nurse didn't seem bothered at the irritable tone. "If not for the bucket, the color of your face tells me everything I need to know. Nausea and pain are to be expected, but we can do our best to minimize the discomfort. As soon as I've finished with your vital signs, I'll step out and get something for the nausea. How's that sound?"

Dean shrugged one shoulder.

"How's the pain?"

"Fine," Dean said, swallowing hard and looking paler by the second.

"Mmhmm," Heidi murmured, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm. Once the vital signs were completed, the nurse walked over to the computer in the room and recorded the information. She locked the computer and said, "You're running a fever so I'm going to bring you some Tylenol as well."

"Not sure I can handle that right now."

Arla believed him. Saying something so blatantly honest was so unlike him that Arla knew he had to be feeling extremely ill. And then there was the fact that he wasn't flirting with the nurse who really should have had a tank top under her too large scrub top. Every time she leaned forward, the ID badge clipped to her collar dragged the fabric down and Arla was able to see, well, _everything._ And if Dean was missing _everything_ , then she knew exactly he how bad he felt.

Heidi nodded, reaching up to check the IV bag. "We'll start with an IV medication for the nausea. Then, if you do ok for a bit, we'll have you try some juice and then the Tylenol. You're not going to feel better till we get the fever down."

She slipped quietly out of the room. Arla took up position back in the chair at the side of his bed, noting that Dean's gaze, inevitably, had drifted toward his brother. When his eyes slid closed, Arla remained silent, knowing he wasn't up to chatting. He didn't say anything when the nurse returned to administer the IV medication. In fact, they were completely silent until Heidi returned a second time with a cup of apple juice and the Tylenol. Dean accepted them with a quiet thanks and managed to take the medication without an issue.

Once the nurse left, Dean shifted onto his side. He looked half-asleep as he whispered, "You don't have to..."

"I know that," Arla cut him off, "And _you_ should know by now that I'm not doing this because I _have_ to, Dean."

That earned her a small but genuine smile. By the time Tommy returned a moment later with two cups of steaming coffee, Dean was sound asleep again.

* * *

Dean woke up to the smell of artificial air, the sound of people talking in too loud whispers somewhere outside the room and that heavy, sluggish feeling that spoke of either a really good night of drinking or a really bad night of pain killers. Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was an IV pole so he knew it hadn't been a good night of drinking. Running a hand over his face, he squeezed his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache was dull; throbbing a rhythmic counterpart to his heartbeat. He felt shaky and sick, throat raw, mouth dry as bone.

After a few moments, he felt adventurous enough to lower his hand and attempt to peel his eyes open for another look around the room. Despite the drug haze he floated in, his mind was clear enough that he didn't have any trouble remembering why he'd wound up in a hospital bed.

Remembering, of course, led instantly to worry. Worry that somewhat abated when he started looking around and caught sight of the main source of his worry soundly sleeping on the couch. Sam looked relaxed and comfortable which was more than Dean had hoped to see. Finding him still asleep did a lot to boost his mood considering he was still in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV of who knew what.

"Good morning."

Dean refocused his attention on the soft voice and saw Arla sitting in an armchair, curled up under a blanket. She had a smile on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand. He was going to need a cup of coffee of his own before he could manage a smile.

He nodded at Sam and asked, "How long's he been sleeping?"

Arla glanced at her watch and whispered, "About seven hours."

"He's been out that long?" Dean asked doubtfully, trying to narrow down the reasons that Sam might have managed a solid seven hours of sleep. _Not that it was necessarily solid. You were drugged to your eyeballs. He could have been screaming all night long and you wouldn't have noticed it,_ Dean thought, fists tightening and sending bolts of tension back up to his shoulders. "Did they dope him up?"

"No. He didn't want anything even though he probably _should_ have taken something." Arla glanced over her shoulder with a regretful look at Sam. She turned back around and said, "Once we got up here and he checked on you, he crashed."

"They let him go?"

"Yes."

Dean nodded, settling back and allowing his fists to unclench. "Good. I don't think he would have done well with being admitted. Not after the last time."

Arla smiled again. "Oh he made it very clear last night that he wasn't staying."

"And he didn't take anything?"

"No. I kept the scripts from the doctor in case he changes his mind."

"He won't." Dean didn't have a doubt about that.

"Maybe not, but I think I'll still get them filled in case."

"What'd they want him to take?" Dean asked, feeling like he should probably pay attention since he doubted strongly that Sam had paid any attention to anything.

"A pain killer, something for nausea, and a low dose sedative."

"To help the withdrawal?"

"Yes."

"I'll talk to him."

"I think that's a good idea." Arla leaned forward, her voice soft, "He didn't tell me much, but I think he needs to talk about what he went through, Dean."

He didn't roll his eyes mostly because he already felt dizzy. But the thought that Sam was going to be interested in talking about anything he'd gone through was laughable. Before he could comment, Arla asked, "How are you doing?"

"Fine." He waved a dismissive hand. "Time is it anyway?"

"Seven-thirty."

"You here all night?"

"Yes."

"Didn't need to be." He smothered a yawn and tried to be polite as he added, "But...thanks. For everything."

"You're welcome." Her smile faded and she asked, "How 'bout you be honest, Dean? How are you feeling and don't say fine this time."

"I feel like hell. That what you wanted to hear?"

"Not really."

Dean sighed. He saw the weariness on her face and hated himself for snapping at her. Again. Tamping down on the ever present anger that was right under the surface, Dean forced a small smile and asked, "Can I call a do over?"

Arla smiled sweetly and said, "Not necessary, but sure."

Dean smiled a bit wider, a sense of relief settling over him. "It's really great to see you, Arla."

"It's great to see you boys too." And she meant it. There was no doubt in his mind. She asked, "Apart from feeling like hell, how are you?"

"Well, apart from that, I've had about the worst year of my life." Dean rubbed his forehead and said, "It'd be nice to run into you sometime when we're not feeling like hell, though. We're usually pretty healthy."

"I'm not sure I believe you Dean Winchester," Arla laughed softly, "but Tommy and I were thinking the same thing."

"Tommy's around?" Dean felt a stirring of unease despite the fact that he liked the man and remembered his unwavering support from years ago. But times changed and the man was in law enforcement. Who knew what stories he'd heard about them? Who knew if he would still give them the benefit of the doubt?

"He got in late last night," Arla said, interrupting his thoughts. She shook her coffee cup. "He's off grabbing us some more coffee. Poor dear."

"You guys don't have to stick around. We can handle this on our own," Dean said automatically, even though everything that was happening was so far out of his comfort zone that he didn't even have a forwarding address.

"But we're going to," Arla answered. " And I don't want to hear any complaint or concern or...well, basically all I want to hear is _yes ma'am_. We're gonna give you boys whatever help you need to get you back on your feet doing what you do so we can keep sleeping soundly at night. Got it?"

Everything in him screamed NO but all that came out of his mouth was, "Yes, ma'am."

The relief in Arla's eyes humbled and stunned him as she said, "Good. Because I did an awful lot of baking yesterday and if I don't have a couple extra hungry mouths to feed all of those muffins to, my husband is gonna lose his svelte frame."

Dean laughed. Actually honest to goodness laughed and it was the best he'd felt since this latest nightmare had begun. He took several easier breaths and rested back against the pillow as he took a peek at Sam. The humor faded and he shook his head, he looked back at Arla. "Not sure we're gonna be up to eating much right away."

"That's ok too. I'll just let Tommy eat the first batch, then he can go on a diet while you boys eat the next batch."

"Sounds good," Dean said, tiring already. He'd really done a number on himself this time. Pushing those thoughts aside, his gaze drifted to Sam and worry bubbled up again despite the pressing desire to go to sleep.

Arla caught his gaze and said, "He's going to be ok, Dean."

He stared at Sam and wished he believed Arla was right. Glancing back at her, Dean asked quietly, "How do you know?"

"Because I've seen what he's made of. What you're _both_ made of."

"You don't know what he's gone through," Dean whispered, thinking of apocalypses, demons, devils and a hundred years of torture.

"No I don't. And I don't think I want to." Arla took a quick peek over her shoulder, then said, "But _you_ know. And you need to talk to him. The dehydration we can treat. The withdrawal from the meds we can treat. But he needs to talk about it. To you. I'm not sure he's going to talk to anyone else."

"I'm not sure he's going to talk to me either," Dean admitted quietly.

"He may not. At first. He probably doesn't know how to start the conversation. Probably doesn't know he _needs_ to start the conversation."

"We aren't exactly great at conversations."

"From what I've seen, you two communicate just fine."

"Obviously you don't know us as well as you think you do." Dean snorted. He didn't get the chance to elaborate because Arla was looking past him.

Tilting his head, he saw Tommy walk into the room with two cups of coffee. A fresh and unwanted wave of anxiety passed over him, but Tommy smiled broadly when he caught his eye and that did something to temper the worry. Handing one of the cups of coffee to Arla, Tommy said quietly, "Good to see you, Dean."

There was nothing but fondness and concern in the older man's eyes. Much like Arla, Tommy looked relieved that Dean was awake. He didn't look like he wanted to arrest him. Didn't look like he thought they were murderers or monsters. Dean didn't know how to respond. Couldn't believe that these perfect strangers would still be willing to help them after all these years.

 _Do they not watch the news? How could they not have seen us supposedly holding hostages, robbing banks, murdering people…_ The most recent memory, that of Leviathans wearing their faces, flashed through his mind. _Why would they want to have anything to do with us?_ He couldn't explain it or understand it.

After a few seconds, though, he realized they were staring at him; waiting for him to say something. So he said the first thing that came to his head, "What happened to your hair?"

Tommy's smile widened and he broke out laughing. Dean caught Arla's amused expression as Tommy said, "It lasted till the twins arrived."

"Your daughters?" Dean frowned, trying to figure out what he meant by that and adapt to the sight of Tommy without his fluffy white hair.

"No, the twin grandsons. Amy's latest addition to our collection," Tommy explained, rubbing his bald head with a rueful smile. "Between Amy and Sara, we now have a grand total of nine grandchildren."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "No wonder your hair fell out!"

"No wonder." Arla smiled in agreement, taking a sip of her coffee.

Tommy sat down on the arm of her chair and asked, "So, Dean. You boys've had a rough few days it sounds like."

"We've had better," Dean admitted just as a young woman walked into the room carrying a tray. He stared at the tray she placed in front of him without interest. Breakfast. Half expecting Arla to push him into eating something, he glanced up at her.

She gave him an understanding smile, but simply took another sip of her coffee.

Dean sighed and forced himself to stab a straw into the cup of apple juice that he did not want to drink. Looked like he was lucky enough to be getting a completely liquid meal this morning. _So appetizing._ Not that he felt like he was up to even taking a sip of the juice let alone trying to eat any real food at this point.

Even though Arla was being kind enough not to be actively pressuring him into trying to eat, he still felt her eyes on him and knew she wanted him to make an effort. What choice did he have anyway? If he didn't eat, drink, and regain his strength, he wasn't going anywhere. And he needed to get back on his feet as soon as possible.

 _Preferably before Sam wakes up and all hell breaks loose._

So he forced himself to drink the juice and choke down the jello, all the while worrying about the only person in the room who hadn't decided to socialize with the rest of them yet.

* * *

Tommy watched the kid forcing himself to eat and knew every bite was a struggle. He looked pale and unwell. But it wasn't merely from the ulcer that had landed him in the hospital. Tommy could see it in his eyes, in the heaviness of his shoulders even as he sat slumped in the bed. He'd been unwell for a long time. And that was much more concerning than the ulcer and current hospitalization. Medical problems could be treated, cured even. Whatever had happened to Dean in the past six years, though, Tommy wasn't so sure could be easily cured.

For a good ten minutes, the room was completely silent. Arla wasn't pressing Dean to eat, _well, drink_ , his breakfast and Tommy wasn't about to put any pressure on him either. There were questions he wanted to ask, answers he wanted to know, but the last thing he wanted to do was hamper the trust that they had been given so far. For good reason, the Winchester boys were not the most trusting individuals he'd ever met and Tommy knew that it wouldn't take much for Dean to kick them out of the room. Which was why he was surprised when Dean spoke up.

"We...uh…we have to check out of the cabin today."

"What time do you have to be checked out?" Tommy asked, checking his watch.

Dean sagged even more against the pillows and set aside the now empty cup of juice. "I can't remember and I don't know where the key is and…"

"I have the key, Dean," Arla interrupted gently. "We can take care of things for you boys."

A hint of apprehension crossed Dean's tired features, but he nodded.

It was probably far too early for them to _need_ to check out of the cabin, but maybe it would be just as well to leave now. Dean appeared fatigued and not likely to bother with much more of his breakfast and even less likely to engage in small talk. Arla looked almost as tired as Dean did and even Tommy could feel the sleepless night dragging on him. It seemed like a good time to step away, get themselves some breakfast, and maybe allow Dean a couple hours of undisturbed rest.

Already, Dean's eyes were closed more than they were open. Tommy glanced at Arla, catching her yawning. When Dean opened his eyes next, Tommy said, "We might head over there now, Dean. Run and grab some breakfast along the way."

He regretted his words when a flash of guilt crossed Dean's face and he said, "Yeah, sure, I'm sorry. Go get yourselves some food."

"It's ok, son." Tommy smiled, trying to set his mind at ease. "You think you can hold down the fort for an hour or two?"

"Be lucky if I can hold down this gourmet breakfast," Dean remarked with a smirk. "But yeah, go ahead. We'll be fine."

Nodding, Tommy followed Dean's gaze to the couch. Glad to see Sam still asleep, Tommy turned to Arla and asked quietly, "Ready for some breakfast, babe?"

"Sure."

But there was hesitation in her tone and Tommy knew she was worried about leaving the boys on their own. He had his own concerns on that note but had observed Dean long enough to know he needed a bit of time to simply gather his thoughts and regroup. Being reliant on anyone when you were used to relying on _no one_ could be extremely stressful.

Trying to make it all as easy as possible, Tommy said, "Alrighty then. We'll head out for a bit, grab some food and your boys' gear. You just settle back and try to rest. I know it's about the last thing you even want to consider doing right now, Dean, but it's what you both need. Deal?"

"Deal." Dean answered agreeably enough, but his eyes told a different story.

As well as he thought he knew the kid, Tommy realized that he would never _really_ know him or what he'd been through; what had made him into the man he was today. Tommy could see a lifetime of mistrust in Dean's eyes as he surveyed the room. One brief check on his brother, one assessing but friendly glance at Arla as she gathered her purse, and one, slightly longer gaze shot his way. There was doubt there, Tommy noted. Hesitation to trust, but also a hint of hope.

Tommy didn't know what he could say to reassure Dean. It was doubtful that _anything_ he tried to say would help at this point. He wasn't sure what Dean was worrying about, although he thought he had a pretty decent guess. Willing to bet it had something to do with some of the less than favorable news reports that they had caught over the years, Tommy almost wanted to tell Dean that they'd seen them and ask what it had all been about. Tell the kid that they didn't believe what the media was selling. Bringing any of that up at this point, however, would only serve to shake the already shaky trust that they had worked to establish.

"We'll be back soon, Dean." Tommy offered a hand to Arla to pull her to her feet. He squeezed her hand when she hesitated. He nodded at Dean and received an answering nod.

"Rest, Dean," Arla said as they headed for the door. She shot a last worried glance over her shoulder as they walked out the door, then tugged on his hand and whispered, "Why are you in such a hurry? We shouldn't be leaving them."

"Honey, it's the best thing for him."

"How do you figure?" Her voice was low, but harsh and told him how worried she was.

Tommy let go of her hand, put an arm over her shoulder and said, "We were sitting there. Staring. He needs a break from us and we need food and I need a shower."

"Then run home and take your shower." Arla started to pull away, but he didn't let her.

"Arla. I know you're worried." He stopped walking and gently pushed her into a small alcove. He tilted her chin up with his right hand and smiled. "They're going to be fine. They're in a hospital. They may be stubborn, but they're not stupid. Probably."

He grinned when she snorted in disbelief. Tommy went on, "Dean needs a little time to himself."

"How do you know that?"

"Because he's not that different from me. If I had the burdens that he's carrying around, I'd need some time to myself to sort it all out, get my head screwed on right. From everything you've told me, Dean's been pushing too hard for too long. And he's right on the edge of trusting us. We push him too hard and they're going to disappear. Hospital or not. Ulcer or not. They will be gone and we will never see them again. And if they do that then we won't be able to help them at all."

Arla sighed and squeezed his free hand. She said, "I just hate leaving them when Sam's not even awake and Dean's barely able to function. What if…"

"Dean knows how run down he is. I didn't get the impression he was planning _The_ _Great Escape_ anytime soon. I have a feeling that, without an audience, he's going to let his guard down and get some of that rest you wanted him to get."

"I hope so." Arla nodded and waved a hand. "Let's go. Faster we grab their gear, faster we get back."

"Don't forget my shower."

She pinched her nose, but her eyes sparkled with mischief when she said, "I'm not likely to. You stink."

Tommy grinned, wrapped his arm around her again and lowered his voice, "You could always join me."

"Thomas Pender!"

"What?" He laughed at the shocked yet amused expression on her face and guided her toward the elevators.

About twenty silent minutes later, they pulled up in front of the cabin. Tommy double checked the number on the key to ensure they were at the correct cabin, then glanced at Arla; smiling when he saw that she'd fallen asleep. He was tired too, but had at least managed a decent sleep on the flight last night. _There are advantages to being able to sleep like the dead under any circumstance._

Parking the car, he studied the rusty beater that was parked in front of the cabin. _What happened to the Impala_? Tommy frowned, considering the expired plates, the very un-Winchester paint job and the nearly rusted off bumper. This vehicle was nothing like the '67 classic that they'd been driving six years ago. If he hadn't already seen the boys in the hospital, Tommy could have figured out from this wreck that they'd been having some very bad times.

As quietly as he could, Tommy got out of the car and closed the door behind him. Arla didn't stir. Deciding he could get everything packed up himself and allow her to continue her little nap, Tommy stopped by the boys' car for a quick peek. The back seat was littered with trash. Otherwise there wasn't much to see in the vehicle. It was the type of nondescript vehicle that would be easy to overlook. _Easy to steal_. Tommy didn't need to run plates or make any phone calls to confirm the car was likely not with its rightful owner anymore.

No matter how bad things got, Dean would not choose this car if he had any other option. In fact, it was so unlike him that Tommy knew it was a deliberate choice. _They're on the run._ He had assumed as much already, but this car was a neon sign to him that they needed to keep a low profile. Given everything they'd picked up on in the past six years, he wasn't surprised. There had been a lot of disturbing news reports; especially lately. But they'd taken every single one of them with a grain of salt and this wasn't any different. First thing on his list after packing the cabin up was to get this car far away from all of them and wipe it down for fingerprints.

Tommy turned and headed up the steps and unlocked the cabin. It reeked of sweat, sick, and dirty laundry. He took a minute to survey the area.

Bed unmade and messy. Table covered with convenience store food. Bottles of beer lined up by the sink. Trash on the floor. Overturned wastebasket. And, oddest of all, a bag of IV fluid incongruously hanging from a lamp. _Where on earth did they come up with that?_

Crossing to the couch, he picked up the duffel bag sitting near it and paused when he caught sight of the bottle of whiskey. Maybe it was being nosy, maybe it was his investigative instinct, either way, Tommy pulled the bottle out. It wasn't full. Not as empty as he'd been afraid it would be, but not as full as it probably should have been considering how many empty beer bottles he had seen. _You're too young to be drinking like this, Dean._ Shaking his head, Tommy tucked the bottle back into the bag and his hand brushed the handle of a gun, but he didn't bother digging any deeper.

He picked up a few assorted pieces of clothing and shoved them into the bag. He knew that Arla would have taken the time to fold every item neatly but he made the executive decision not to worry about it. _What she doesn't see me do won't hurt her,_ he smirked and zipped the bag up, leaving it on the couch.

After gathering some other odds and ends, he headed to the bathroom. A few items to toss into the backpack sitting on the counter, but there wasn't much else in the bathroom for him to worry about. He grabbed the backpack and then things were tumbling out of another pocket that he hadn't realized was unzipped. A notebook hit the floor, spilling loose papers across the tile. A tube of toothpaste and a wallet followed.

Tommy knelt down and grabbed the toothpaste and wallet. A quick glance inside revealed that it was Sam's wallet. Tucking them back into the backpack, he started to pick up the papers, not intending to do more than slide them back into the notebook. But he couldn't help it when a quick glance at the top page caught his attention.

The script on the page was messy and disconnected; the words trailed up and down the page in uneven and unsteady lines. And as much as the handwriting was a clue to the physical state of the writer, the words themselves told the story of Sam's emotional and mental condition. Despite what he knew of the boys, despite the way he'd already _known_ that things had been out of control bad for them, this? _this_ showed him how ignorant he really was.

The first page he glanced at had the most writing on it. A brief examination of the other sheets of paper revealed that they were all variations of the most complete one. In fact, it appeared that each page was almost the same, starting the same way, and merely adding more details, like drafts of a child's book report; the dates noted on top of each page went back over the course of several weeks. The last page had been written a week and a half ago. The pages all started out fairly neat, but then dissolved into indecipherable scribbles. Odd words and interrupted thoughts littered the pages; even the last draft. There were entire sections written in odd symbols that he didn't recognize; symbols that almost looked like words, but bore no resemblance to any language he'd ever seen before.

It was a letter penned by a man losing his mind.

In spite of the fact that he knew he was invading the poor kid's privacy, Tommy read the note, picking through the unconnected thoughts, symbols and scrambled words until he saw the actual letter that Sam had been trying so hard to write.

 _Dean,_

 _I need you to know I'm sorry. About all of it. Dad's death. Trusting Ruby. Not saving you from hell. The demon blood. Letting Lucifer out, starting the apocalypse. Everything I did to you and Bobby when I didn't have my soul. I'm sorry that Bobby died. I know how hard his death is on you even if you won't talk to me. I'm sorry about all of it. I should have listened to you. I_ _always_ _should have listened to you. I'm sorry I've always been such a screw-up. I can't believe you've put up with me this long. I know you think you have to. I know you see it as your job. And I'm sorry Dad ever put that on you because he sure as hell shouldn't have._

 _Now, with Frank dead too, I can tell you don't know what to do and I'm not helping anything._

 _I don't think I have much longer, to be honest. It's taken me weeks to even get this much on paper; I can't_ THINK _with him talking to me all the time._

 _I'm having a really, really hard time knowing what's going on, what's real, and Lucifer is making it easy to believe I'm still down there and that these past months, months I don't even remember, are the false reality. Maybe it's better that way._

 _Nothing works now. Pain doesn't even help. He NEVER GOES AWAY DEAN!_

 _I never told you, but ever since you went missing in Idaho, he's never let up. It's my fault. I listened to him. Once I acknowledged him, he never let up, but he did help me find you. At least he did one thing to help before he started singing_ Stairway to Heaven _on endless repeat. I hate that song, Dean._

 _By the time you read this, I'll probably be dead. Either he's gonna kill me or I'm gonna do it myself like he wants me to. At this point, I don't think there's a difference. And it's the best way for this to end. I just wish I knew you're gonna be ok once I'm gone._

 _Just know how sorry I am, ok? And it's not your fault. None of it._

Tommy stared at the unfinished letter for a full minute; trying to come to terms with what he'd read. He couldn't understand most of it. Hell and demon blood? The apocalypse and Lucifer? From any other source, he would have decided that the words were either metaphors or exaggerations. But he knew better. He knew that everything Sam had written was the truth. It _had_ happened and suddenly Tommy had to hold onto the door-frame to maintain his balance.

Ghosts and storybook monsters had been one thing. This? This was entirely different.

After a moment, he pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the counter, still staring at the notebook in his hand. A notebook that gave him only a _hint_ of how bad things really were. As much as Sam had written, Tommy knew there were volumes left unwritten.

For the first time, he understood why Arla seemed so worried. Worried about leaving them, worried that she wouldn't be able to help them.

"What are you doing?"

Tommy turned at the sound of Arla's voice. He forced a smile, knowing it probably left a lot to be desired, and said, "Packing. Didn't want to wake you up."

He saw her gaze go to the notebook in his hand. _She doesn't need to see this. At least not right now,_ he thought, shoving the notebook back into the bag. He could tell she knew he was keeping something from her, but she trusted him enough to not press the issue. Hoping he was making the right decision, Tommy zipped the bag up and joined her in the main room.

"Thanks." Arla nodded, pushing her hair behind her ears as she surveyed the mess. "Felt good to get a bit of a rest."

He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad."

"So you've been playing detective in here?" Arla narrowed her eyes.

"Maybe a little. You know I can't help myself."

"I know. What do you think? You ready to call the cops?"

"I am a cop." Tommy watched as she started packing up the odds and ends on the table. Her lips were pursed and each movement she made was tense and quick. Knowing what she was thinking, he grabbed her shoulders and said, "Arla. I'm not going to call the cops and I'm not going to arrest them."

"Are you sure?" She asked, tears in her eyes.

Drawing her into a quick hug despite the fact she made it a challenge by having her arms folded across her chest, Tommy said, "Sometimes I think you think I'm a mean old man."

"No, I don't. Not really. I just know that...I know that we're coloring outside the lines here. I know that the boys…"

"Are heroes." Tommy looked her in the eye as he spoke. "And we're a couple of the lucky people who are privileged enough to _know_ that. I'm thinking that most of the people they meet, people they save, have no idea that those two boys saved their lives from monsters they wouldn't believe are real even if they ran face first into them. From everything I saw that Christmas, those boys have earned my trust until proven wrong and I'm not expecting to be proven wrong."

Arla nodded and he could feel the tension ease out of her body. He added, "As far as coloring outside the lines? Let's just say we're _blurring_ the lines a bit. As far as we know, they haven't done anything wrong. Right?"

"Right." Arla smiled.

"Exactly. So let's pack 'em up, check 'em out and grab some breakfast on the way home."

"Home?"

"Yes. Home. Were you really planning to take all of their gear up to the hospital? I thought we might conveniently leave it in a couple of our guest bedrooms?"

Arla's smile widened as she said, "You are a very sneaky man, Tommy. Very sneaky. I approve."

"I knew you would." Tommy slung the backpack over a shoulder and helped pack up the rest of the few items lying around. "And if we park this car out by that abandoned warehouse store on the north side of town where there are conveniently no security cameras, and make sure the car's neat and _clean_ , they won't have a choice but to ride with us wherever we take them."

"You're going to ditch their car?"

"It's not their car."

Arla studied him for a long moment, then said, "I didn't really think so either. Alright. Ditch the car. Breakfast…"

"Then shower." Tommy grinned, although his heart felt ten times heavier than it had before he'd found Sam's notebook.

"Yes. Then shower."

Something about the twinkle in her eyes assured him that he wouldn't be taking his shower alone...

* * *

 **Hope it was worth the wait guys! I'm off to drink a bottle of Nyquil and take a nap. Hope you're having a great day!**


	15. Ch15: Where my failures were

**Hi everyone! Thanks for all the kind reviews for the last chapter! As usual, this one took longer than I'd ever hoped...mostly because I've been just about as exhausted as Sam! Two weeks and I'm still coughing and falling into bed almost as soon as I get home from work.**

 **Anyway! Want to say a huge thank you to my lovely guest reviewer(s), especially to you who left the wonderful note on August 1st! :) Sorry-not-sorry for making you cry! lol! Don't anyone despair...while the boys are both struggling and in a very dark place...they are going to be patched back up in time to go help Garth hunt the Shojo!**

 **So. Here's the next chapter. Anyone in the mood for a whole chapter of the boys left to their own devices? No? Ok. better skip this chapter. lol! Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 15: Where my failures were**_

* * *

The morning became nothing but a hazy blur as Dean drifted in and out of awareness. He managed to catch a few periods of interrupted sleep between nurse assessments, medications, and one vicious bout of vomiting about an hour after the Penders had left. Never able to sleep for long even when left alone, he found that the gnawing worry worked as an effective alarm clock.

 _At this rate, you're going to worry yourself into an ulcer,_ Dean snorted, _oh wait! Too late._

Glancing at the clock yet again, he wasn't sure how he felt knowing that the Penders were out there, collecting their gear and the car from the cabin. They'd been great all morning, never pressing, never making him feel like they were studying him; even so, he'd been ready for a break. He wasn't used to anyone sitting at his bedside except Sam.

Settling back against his pillow, Dean felt his eyes sliding closed. It didn't take much for him to become weary and out of breath. Even the simplest movements took their toll.

Before giving in to the pull of ever present exhaustion, though, Dean took another glance at Sam. And decided the nap could wait. Sam's eyes weren't quite open yet, and his movements were uncoordinated and restless, but it was the most activity Dean had seen so far.

"Sam?" Dean called out, hating the helpless feeling that overcame him as he spoke.

He wasn't going to be able manage to get out of the bed and over to his brother's side like he needed to do. _At least not in this century._ He'd only been out of bed once so far; a very brief, dizzying, trip to the bathroom that had required more assistance from a petite nurse than he _ever_ wanted to think about again.

 _Ever._

The simple fact was that he wouldn't be rushing across the room anytime soon. Which pissed him off at the same time it made him feel worn out and old. Attention returning to his brother, Dean called out his name again and this time was rewarded with a pair of bloodshot, unfocused eyes pointed his direction.

"You awake?" Dean asked, his insides churning like a rocky sea as he waited to see how Sam would respond.

As glad as he was that Sam had managed some legitimate sleep, it worried him how _long_ he had been legitimately sleeping. It was almost ten and, by now, Dean had created about fifteen different scenarios for why Sam was still asleep. All of them bad and not a single one of them taking into account the fact that maybe he was sleeping because he was _tired._ It seemed impossible that something so simple, so _normal,_ could be responsible.

"Dude, are you listening to me?" Dean raised his voice, grimacing at the way it tore at his throat and doubled the pounding in his head.

"Dean?" Sam sounded as muddled and exhausted as Dean felt.

"Yeah." _So far so good,_ Dean thought. _At least he knows who I am._ "Are. You. Awake?"

"Yeah," Sam mumbled, his eyes falling closed for a long minute before reopening and meeting Dean's again. "You ok?"

"Swell."

"You look it." Sam sounded more annoyed than Dean had thought possible given how out of it he seemed. "What happened to you?"

Sensing an opportunity to downplay the situation and maximize on Sam's disorientation and memory lapses, Dean shrugged. "Nothing big. Don't worry about it."

But, of course, Sam was half-dead, half-conscious and _still_ the sharpest friggin' tack in the box. He narrowed his bleary eyes. "It's not nothing. You're in a hospital bed. I'm not stupid."

"Not stupid, but apparently grumpy." Dean shook his head, happy that Sam was coherent enough to be irritated. Smiling, Dean decided to aggravate him just because he could. "Geeze, Sammy, get up on the wrong side of the couch?"

Sam glared at him despite the fact that he was still having trouble keeping both his eyes open at one time and had yet to lift his head from the pillow.

The weak glare bouncing off him, Dean waved a hand dismissively. "It's an ulcer, ok? No big deal. People get 'em all the time."

"You're an idiot."

"What are you talking about?" Dean raised his eyebrows, shocked at the angry way Sam spat the words at him.

"I _knew_ something like this was going to happen."

"What are you talking about?" Dean repeated just because he knew it would piss Sam off.

"It's because of the way you've been drinking."

"It's not because of the way I've been drinking," Dean lied through his teeth and rubbed at the ache in his chest.

"You're lying through your teeth," Sam said and Dean kind of hated him for being so damned _right_ all the time. Sam's voice grew softer and the anger dissipated as he whispered, "You're always drinking, Dean. Always. And it's different than before. You're not in control of it. And you won't talk to me. You shut me out every time."

Dean wished he had the strength to get out of bed. Because he wanted to rush across the room right now and shake Sam until he stopped talking and then he wanted to get a hold of that bottle of whiskey he had stashed in his duffel and drink the whole thing dry because his hands were shaking and his mouth was parched and it had been _way_ too long since he'd had a drink.

And then he wanted to get in the Impala and drive for two days straight and never look at a road sign and never worry about who was trying to kill them this time because, if he was getting what he wanted, maybe there wouldn't _be_ anyone who was trying to kill them for once. He wanted to stop thinking about Cas and Dick Roman and Bobby.

He wanted to stop thinking about Sam falling to pieces faster than he could pick them back up again.

"I don't know how to help you." Sam's almost inaudible confession sounded thunderous in the cold hospital room and Dean let go of some of his anger at the realization that he wasn't the only one worrying.

Dean met Sam's concerned eyes and shook his head. The irony of the fact Sam was repeating words _he'd_ earlier uttered to Sam was not lost on Dean. But he wasn't interested in getting into a discussion, _argument_ , about his drinking habits.

 _Not now, not ever, little brother._

Dean sighed. "Can we not do this? Ok?"

"Dean…"

"Seriously. Drop it." Dean regretted his harsh tone, but he couldn't find it in himself to apologize.

Sam stared at him for a few more seconds, then pressed his hand to his eyes and fell silent.

Dean had a feeling that his brother was acquiescing merely because he was too tired to keep up the fight rather than that he didn't _want_ to keep up the fight. Dean didn't care. As long as the interrogation stopped, he would take what he could get.

After a minute, he rubbed his eyes and asked, "How're you feeling?"

"Fine."

 _Should have been expecting that_ , Dean decided. Sam lowered his hand, but remained exactly where he was, eyes still closed. Dean knew he should have been less antagonistic if he hadn't wanted that kind of response. Now he was probably fighting a losing battle if he tried to get a straight answer out of his brother.

"Sam?"

"What?"

Dean paused. Suggesting that Sam sit up and eat something was probably the quickest way to send him on a permanent hunger strike.

"Dean?" Sam opened his eyes and pushed himself upright a few inches. He had a long way to go before he was sitting up, but at least he was heading the right direction.

Dean changed tactics. _Time to be diplomatic._ "You got some sleep."

Sam nodded against the pillow. "You?"

"Some."

"Good." Sam pushed at the cushions again and shifted another inch upwards. Kicking at the blankets, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and, in one burst of energy, pushed himself into a sitting position.

Personally, Dean would have recommended a slower, more gentle tactic, but, hey if it worked, who was he to argue?

"Sammy?" Dean asked after a minute passed.

It was encouraging that Sam had managed to sit up on his own without incident. Although, Dean wasn't yet 100% convinced Sam hadn't actually passed out along the way. He fisted a hand in the sheets, hating how weak he felt. He needed to be _there_ , not trapped in the bed like some invalid.

"'M'ok."

"Sure you are." Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "You plannin' on goin' somewhere?"

Sam didn't answer. Not that he needed to. His eyes were squeezed tightly closed and Dean could see his grip on the edge of the couch. Biting his tongue to keep from being more of an annoyance than he already had been, Dean waited. He'd give Sam a good five minutes tops before he started pressing the issue and making sure he was going to survive being vertical again. As it turned out, it only took about a minute and a half before Sam opened his eyes.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I...I can't…" Sam broke off, leaning so his head rested against the back of the couch. He stared at the ceiling and his breathing became unsteady as he whispered, "It's too quiet."

Dean fumbled with the bedding till he found the thus far unused tv remote. Turning the tv on, he didn't even pay attention to the channel, merely turning the volume up until Sam's breathing began to return to something close to normal.

"He's gone?"

"He's gone, Sam." Dean wondered when he wouldn't have to answer this question; when Sam would stop needing to ask to be sure. The knot in his stomach twisted around itself again.

"Feel like I'm...like I'm missing...time. Forgetting things."

Dean could feel his brother's frustration and he watched Sam as his gaze began drifting around the room. It quickly transitioned from a casual, curious evaluation of his surroundings to a desperate, frantic search for threats and dangers. The knot in Dean's stomach expanded, pressing against his ribs and stealing his breath. _He's fine. He just needs to remember that it's all over._

Dean snapped his fingers and sat up as straight as he could even though it hurt, then raised his voice. "Sam. What are you looking for? Just a boring room, nothing to see. Except the far more handsome Winchester brother over here."

His hopeful humor resulted in a startled snort of amusement as Sam's wayward gaze finally came to rest on him. Encouraged that Sam was focusing on him and not whatever nightmarish apparition that he had been _seeing? Remembering?_ looking for in dark corners, Dean said, "There are no threats in here other than the threat of you falling asleep again."

"Not gonna fall asleep."

"Yeah. You're selling me on that line, sleepy." Dean rolled his eyes. "You want something to drink?"

The color drained out of Sam's face, what little there had been to start with, and Dean figured that was his answer. Of course, it was an _unacceptable_ answer, but given the fact he didn't have anything available to give Sam to drink, and the chances of him successfully crossing the room unaided in order to force Sam to drink anything were slim to none, he figured it would have to do.

For the moment.

"I don't remember falling asleep."

"Neither do I." Dean sighed. He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb into his temple and the rest of his fingers into the spot in the middle of his forehead where the pounding seemed centered. Trying to remember what the nurse had said about when he could have more pain medication only added to the tension. Lowering his hand because it wasn't helping either, Dean looked back at Sam and added, "Last night was kind of a blur if you wanna know the truth."

"Yeah." Sam shifted slightly and grimaced, pressing a hand to his ribs. He looked around again, but this time it was just that curious evaluation again, not a threat assessment. "Arla was here, right? That was real?"

"That was real."

"You were throwing up blood?" Sam sounded more tentative this time, like he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Dean didn't want to tell him the truth, but he knew better than to lie. "Yeah. I was. But that's all taken care of, ok?"

"You're gonna be ok?"

"I'm gonna be fine."

Sam sighed heavily.

"How about you? And don't lie to me because I'm not in the mood for that kind of shit right now. I'm just not." Dean felt the knot climbing up his throat.

Arla's confident assurances that Sam needed the sleep had helped allay most of the fear, but now that Sam was awake again and not looking any better, Dean was having more trouble pretending he wasn't still terrified about the state of his brother's mind. Seeing the skittish way Sam was, even now, checking the corners for threats wasn't helping.

It took a long time, but Sam met his gaze again. He looked utterly wrung out; like simply drawing a deep breath into his lungs might break him. His eyes were heavy, shadowed, and he was too still. _Still. Like a body. A dead body._ Dean shivered at the thought, counting the seconds with the clock he could still hear over the television. It took twenty-three seconds before Sam finally answered him.

"I don't know what you want to hear, Dean."

Dean didn't know what he wanted to hear either.

And Sam sounded so defeated that Dean found himself torn between two very different emotions. On one hand he was so angry that it was a good thing a nurse wasn't checking his blood pressure right now because it would break the damned cuff. On the other hand, absolute heartbreak threatened to drag him under the jagged waves of depression that had been rising higher and higher every single day for the past... forever, his mind whispered.

He looked at Sam, sitting there, trying so hard to hold himself together when he'd already fallen apart. Dean didn't think there was anything that could make what they'd gone through, what _Sam_ had gone through, any better or any less of a nightmare. For a moment, they stared at each other uncertainly and then, because one of them needed to be certain about something, Dean said, "You wanna know what I want to hear?"

Sam nodded even though his expression showed that he wasn't sure he _did_ want to hear it.

"I want to hear that you haven't given you're not _gonna_ give up. Because if you give up, man," Dean shook his head, that ever present despair threatening him again, "then I'm done. I can't keep going if you're not going to."

"I'm not giving up," Sam said softly and it was the most confident thing he'd said so far.

"Good."

Dean felt a hint of hope for the first time in a long time. Bolstered with that bit of encouragement, he decided it was time to start focusing on getting them back on their feet. And first thing on the agenda was getting Sam some food and fluids.

"How about you try to drink something? I can see you shaking all the way from here." He softened his tone when Sam squeezed his eyes closed like Dean's words had caused actual, physical pain. "You can't keep going like this. I know you don't feel good, but you've got to…"

"I know, ok?" Sam's raised voice was more of a choked off plea.

Biting his tongue to keep from saying something he'd regret, Dean waited. He wished that Arla would come back because he knew she'd swoop in and find Sam something to drink and something to eat and make sure he was going to be ok. There wasn't a lot _he_ could do for Sam where he was right now.

Sam leaned forward, resting his head in his hands.

Dean glanced at the clock. Tommy and Arla had been gone for quite awhile. They hadn't said how long they would be gone, and he wondered if they'd come to their senses.

 _Tommy could have run the plates. They might have called the cops. The car was stolen. From the back of an empty, foreclosed house, sure, but still stolen. They could have seen those broadcasts of our Leviathan selves on their murder spree. There's a limit to how nice people are._

 _Everyone has their limit._

* * *

Waking up had been a bad idea.

Cradling his aching head in his hands, Sam wished he could retreat back to the darkness. But there was no going back now. His body and mind were wide awake, even if functioning at less than optimal levels. Trying to piece together everything that had happened was an exercise in frustration. It was like trying to gather the remnants of a dream; images faded to black before he even could determine what he had seen.

"Sam?"

He didn't lift his head, but forced his eyes open at the sound of his brother's voice. Staring down between his socks at the floor, Sam tried his best not to think about the fact he was in a hospital. Of all the things to avoid thinking about, that seemed to be rising to the top of the list in record time. Dean's voice faded to nothingness and the only thing he could hear was his own ragged breathing.

After what might have been a few minutes or half an hour, he managed to draw an easy breath and remembered Dean had said something. He asked, "What?"  
Dean didn't reply which was reason enough for Sam to force his head up and investigate.

His stomach lurched and being sick all over the floor became a distinct possibility when he caught sight of his brother. Swallowing hard, Sam forced back the nausea and tried to see the reality in front of him instead of the _unreality_ that his mind was projecting onto the scene.

 _He's not dead. He just talked to me. No blood, right? No. No blood anywhere. He's fine._

"Dean?" Sam would have been embarrassed by the fact that he sounded like a scared kid if not for the fact that he was too busy concentrating on not puking or running out the door screaming.

"Hm?" Dean opened his eyes.

Like a blow to the gut, relief hit him and the room took a dizzying spin. Bracing his hands on his knees, Sam watched as Dean rubbed his eyes. He was lying back against the white pillows like he didn't have the strength to do anything else. Sam found himself struggling to come to terms with the version of his brother that he was staring at. He looked ill, wasted, weak; his face pale except for a hint of fever and some bruising. Trying to think back, to remember, Sam wondered how long Dean had looked like this without him even seeing it.

"Sam? You zoned out again. Back with me now?" Dean's voice sounded foreign; raspy and too quiet.

"Yeah."

"Good. Cuz I was getting bored waiting for you." Dean yawned and shifted slightly in the bed, his left hand pressing against his stomach. "You haven't been very entertaining company today."

Sam didn't respond. Things were getting dark fast and he regretted sitting up in the first place. But now he was too dizzy to try to fix the situation. Any move he made was going to result in…

"You're gonna pass out."

 _I know that_ , Sam thought in irritation as he closed his eyes and lowered his head back into his shaking hands. Things didn't exactly get better but at least he held onto consciousness. _For now._ Either things would get better or maybe he'd stop caring and just let go.

Of course, having an overly anxious older brother kind of put a damper on that plan.

Sam tried telling him that he was fine; to just give him a minute. Maybe he hadn't said any of it as loud as he thought he had, though. Regardless, it was obvious that Dean wasn't happy with him. His words faded an indistinct hum as Sam lost the will to bother deciphering what he was saying.

 _Is it too much to ask for a minute or two to sort myself out?_

Apparently the answer was yes.

"You're the _nurse_?" Dean's incredulous voice punched through the muffled distant sounds and that was when Sam realized he couldn't keep track of time at all anymore. It hadn't seemed that long to him, but must have been a lot longer in reality because, even worried, Dean probably wouldn't have sicced a nurse on him if it had only been a minute or two.

"You're the _patient_?" An unfamiliar male voice asked with exaggerated surprise.

 _Oh boy._ As if he didn't have enough to deal with already. A male nurse? One who came with a Dean-like flare for sarcasm. The possibilities of Dean being out of control obnoxious went up infinitely.

From the sound of it, though, the male nurse in question had a pretty good handle on the situation. His sarcastic reply had shut Dean down. _For the moment_. Sam forced his head up because he figured that seeing the expression on Dean's face would be worth the spike of pain the movement cost him.

And it was.

Dean looked so out of his element that it was possible he would need a road-map to guide him back. Whether it was the fact that the nurse was a _guy_ or the fact that the nurse had a wicked sense of humor, Sam wasn't sure. Either way, the expression on Dean's tired face was enough to make Sam laugh. Not just snicker. Not just snort in mild amusement. But laugh.

It hurt like hell. His ribs, his head and everything in between were nowhere near as amused as he was. Neither was Dean. Bracing his arm tight to his chest, Sam tried to stop laughing but Dean looked so offended and shocked that it wasn't easy. The blinding pain in his skull and the way the room started to look like a shaken kaleidoscope on LSD, though? That was more than enough to put an end to his amusement.

 _This sucks. I feel so flippin' sick,_ Sam leaned against the pillows; not quite laying down again but giving it some serious consideration.

"Sam? You done with your little psychotic moment over there?" The voice was ragged but Dean was making sure the newcomer knew which one of them was the King of Sarcasm.

It was the underlying worry, something that came through to Sam even louder than the sarcastic words, that had him responding seriously instead of in a similar tone. "I'm ok."

"Like hell," Dean snapped, his gaze turning from Sam to the nurse who was standing there silently observing them both. Dean asked, "You bring the Ginger Ale?"

"Yes," the guy said and Sam started to feel sorry for him.

"Then give it to my stupid brother over there would ya?"

Sam glared at him and Dean glared back and neither of them accomplished anything. A can of Ginger Ale appeared in his peripheral vision and he tensed.

"It's Sam, right?" The nurse asked softly from a comfortable distance that Sam appreciated. "I'm Matt."

Not bothering to move from where he was slumped against the pillows, Sam looked over at the nurse. The guy was right about their age, maybe a bit older, with more muscles than either of them. Sam didn't want the soda. Not at all. But between his brother's nagging and the scrutinizing stare he was receiving from the nurse, he decided he'd better just take it. He wasn't winding up as a patient again and he didn't want or appreciate the scrutiny he was currently under.

"Thanks." He held out a hand, concentrating on keeping it from shaking, and Matt handed him the can of soda.

"No problem." The nurse took a couple steps back.

Sam knew he needed to take a drink or risk the worried wrath of his brother. _Or pass out_ , he thought as he took a sip.

"How are you doing?" Matt's voice seemed far away and it took a moment for Sam to register that the nurse was addressing Dean.

"I'm fine." Dean's answer was rote. Predictable.

 _A lie_.

Sam swallowed the Ginger Ale and closed his eyes, listening to the conversation.

"Glad you're feeling fine." Matt didn't seem to be buying what Dean was selling any more than Sam was if the tone of his voice were any indication. "So, no nausea?"

"Nope," Dean answered through gritted teeth. Sam's own stomach lurched and he held his breath as he braced the can on his knee.

"Oh that's good. No pain then either, I bet?"

 _This guy's asking to get punched in the face,_ Sam thought, taking a shaky breath and studying the scene before him.

"Not even a little." Dean crossed his arms over his chest. His belligerence was nothing new or unexpected but it still sent a spike of half-panic, half-pain through Sam's chest.

Matt nodded, unperturbed. He studied Dean for a minute, then sent another assessing glance Sam's way. Lifting the can of soda once more, Sam let that be his own answer. Swallowing another sip took every last bit of willpower and concentration he possessed, so whatever Matt may have said before he walked out the door was lost.

"Damn it, Sam."

Headache or not, Sam's head snapped up at Dean's quiet words. He stared at Dean, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong this time. Resting the can against his knee again, he opened his mouth to ask what Dean's problem was, but his brother beat him to it.

"They should've admitted you."

"What are you talking about?" The room started closing in on him and Sam gripped the armrest of the couch with his left hand

Dean uncrossed his arms and ran a hand down his face before sighing. "You're not ok."

"Apparently the ER doc thought I was," Sam spit the words out defensively. " _You're_ the one whose ass is still in a bed."

"I'll be out of here by lunch." Dean shrugged, but he must have been too tired to even attempt to sound convincing about it. "You should take the-"

"I'm not taking anything."

"-pills when Arla gets back."

Sam almost dropped the can of soda. _He wants you to take the pills. He knows you're crazy. He knows you're not better…_

"Sam?"

"You should have left me there," Sam whispered, more to himself than to his brother.

 _Might as well admit it. He's thinking it anyway._ Sam didn't want to look at Dean, but he forced himself to. He had no idea what he expected to see in his brother's eyes, but he was surprised to see him looking so lost.

The room was silent except for the television in the background. After a long, uncomfortable moment in which Sam stared at his brother and wished he could read his mind, Dean finally spoke up again.

"I never should have left you there. Not even for one day." Dean's voice was hushed, pained, as he rubbed his chest. "So don't say that. Don't say I should've left you and don't you dare think it. You hear me? You never should have been there in the first place. The only reason you ever ended up there was because I..."

"I ended up there because I was losing my mind."

"Because the devil was screwing with you!"

"Yeah, because I was _hallucinating_ him." Sam laughed and hated that it sounded a bit hysterical. "I think that's a pretty decent reason for someone to get locked up."

Dean's jaw tightened and silence fell over them. Sam pushed himself up straighter and took another drink, trying to settle his stomach and his racing thoughts. He could almost feel each and every thought ricocheting around in his skull. It was an additional pain over and above the constant headache; he couldn't remember when his head had begun to hurt in the first place and he wasn't sure it would ever _stop_ hurting. He finished almost half the can of soda and the silence remained unbroken.

Shaky, but starting to feel a degree of relief from having something in his stomach, he knew that Dean was still staring. Evaluating. Assessing. It frustrated him, but he didn't have the energy for a fight. He met Dean's stare and studied the bruises on his brother's face. A hazy memory flashed into his mind.

"Sorry," he said, finally breaking the silence.

"For what?" Dean rubbed at his eyes with both hands.

"I punched you. Didn't I?"

Dean lowered his hands and snorted, his expression changing from tension to amusement. "Remembered that, didja?"

"Sort of." Sam frowned, wishing _something_ would come into focus.

"Well, don't strain your brain. Wasn't a big deal."

"It's a big deal that I can't _remember_ doing it." Sam tightened his grip on the can, hearing the metal crinkle.

Dean rolled his eyes and said, "Obviously you remembered or you wouldn't have brought it up. Stop stressing yourself out about all of it. Your brain's been through a lot. Give it a break, will ya?"

Sam wished it were that simple. He let the subject drop, though. Realizing he didn't have his watch, he checked the clock for the time then asked, "What day is it?"

"What difference does it make?"

"It makes a difference when I need to know what day it is." Sam gritted his teeth. Dean looked half-dead but he wasn't any less irritating than any other given day.

"Look, _I_ don't even know what day it is." Dean's voice rose with every word. "In case you missed it, you're not the only one who's been a little under the weather so if you could lay off the twenty questions that'd be great. I've got enough to worry about right now. Like how the hell we're gonna get out of here and whether the Penders have called the cops on us and, oh yeah! Let's not forget Dick friggin' Roman out there with his horde of big mouths tryin' to take over the world. So I'm sorry if figuring out what day of the week it is doesn't seem like a priority right now."

By the time he finished speaking, Dean was out of breath and Sam felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

 _Leviathans._ He'd forgotten about them. Forgotten about the fight, the bigger picture. They needed to get out of the hospital. _Hospital_. Panic welled up and Sam asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"What?" Dean blinked at him as if he'd fallen asleep in the few seconds since he'd finished talking. He didn't look or sound angry now; he sounded exhausted.

"What do you want me to do?" Sam repeated, setting the soda on the floor as he reached for his boots. "Should I go get the car and our gear? Or you want me to get you out of here first?"

He had one boot laced up before Dean spoke.

"Sam, calm down." He sounded so tired that Sam paused and looked up in concern. Dean shook his head and said, "We're not going anywhere yet."

"But you just said…"

"I know what I said, ok? But we can't just walk out of here. The Penders left to go get our car and…"

"You let them?"

Dean shot him an annoyed glare. "Does it look like I have the ability to _let_ anyone do anything right now? Besides, we had to check out today and you were dead to the world."

Sam pulled his other boot on, ignoring the head rush from leaning down. "You should've woke me up."

"Yeah that wasn't gonna happen. Arla made this a mandatory quiet zone. She was down the _hall_ shushing people." Dean cracked a tiny smile. "I even got shushed and _I'm_ the patient."

"You trust them?"

"I'm trying to," Dean admitted. "What they did for us that Christmas, it gives me a lot of reasons to. But…"

"There are always reasons not to." Sam straightened up and saw black spots for a few seconds.

A startling image of Castiel flashed into his mind through the blackness and suddenly he was standing there in an unfamiliar warehouse with Dean and Bobby while Cas became something terrifying; something unfamiliar and evil. Another image overcame the first and he was in an alley and Cas reached for him...and Sam felt the explosion of pain behind his eyes like he had in that very moment as he'd blacked out.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he pressed his hands to his head and couldn't bite back the groan. Dean was calling to him but Sam couldn't lift his head, couldn't respond. Over and around the pain, like a phantom killer stalking its prey, the images continued to assault him until he almost forgot how to breathe.

"Sam?"

Movement across the room startled him back to the present and Sam managed to tilt his head up. He saw Dean struggling to get the blankets off, struggling to get out of bed. Sam pushed himself to his feet, the world lurching and tilting.

"Sam? Are you with me?"

He was. Sam nodded and Dean settled back in the bed, an arm braced against his stomach as he kept his full focus on Sam. Taking a step forward, Sam wasn't sure where he needed to go; but he knew he needed to get _out_.

"Hey! What's going on?" Dean interrupted his thoughts and his forward motion.

Coming to an unsteady halt only three feet from where he'd started, Sam looked at his brother and said, "I need to get some air."

Instead of placating Dean, his words seemed to double his brother's worry. Dean shook his head, "There's air right here. Sit down."

"No. I need...I can't be here. I need to get out." The walls were closing in again and the flashing memories were slamming into him so fast he was afraid he was going to have a seizure.

 _And won't that just be great_.

"Sam…"

Sam found it difficult to concentrate, to find the words he needed in order to explain to Dean that he couldn't stay. He took another step forward and tried to get the stuttering words out, "I'll just go outside...for a few minutes. Ok? I'll come back. Ok? I just need….I can't breathe in here, Dean."

He could hear the plea in his voice and knew Dean heard it too. Dean's eyes widened and he held up a hand, "Just wait. Just calm down for a second ok?"

Sam shot a glance at the door. _So close._

"Sammy, come on. Focus."

Sam turned away from the door and looked at him.

"You listening to me?"

Sam nodded, feeling like a tree caught in a hurricane force gale. He needed a wall to lean against.

"Sit down. Ok?" Dean's voice bordered on panic now. "You're gonna fall over."

"I'll come back," Sam whispered, the words catching in his throat. Because he really wasn't sure he'd ever be able to make it back inside the walls of the hospital once he left.

Dean seemed to be holding his breath. Sam almost sat down, but he couldn't. He needed to get out; to outrun the memories. Pausing by the door, he said, "I'll come back, Dean."

And then he walked out the door.

* * *

Dean watched as Sam walked out the door without looking back. Every instinct in him screamed for him not to let Sam go. He needed to go after him at the very least; make sure he was ok. _Who am I kidding? He's not even close to ok._ Dean stared at the open door, his fists unclenching even though his heart felt clenched too tight in his chest.

After several minutes during which his brother did not make a reappearance, Dean sank back against the pillows. His entire body was shaking and another pressing need found its way to the forefront of his mind.

 _I need a drink._

And, as if the thought itself had a hypnotic power, Dean couldn't think about anything else. It had been too long since he'd had a sip of anything to calm his nerves and the added stress of no longer having a visual on his brother made him break out in a cold sweat. Rubbing a hand across his mouth, he thought about the bottle of whiskey in his bag. _If they come back here with our gear,_ his thoughts spun as he looked at the clock, _I can wait that long._

But he wasn't sure he could.

And as soon the thought crossed his mind, Sam's words came back to him.

 _You're always drinking, Dean. Always. And it's different than before. You're not in control of it. And you won't talk to me. You shut me out every time._

He'd never admit it aloud, but Sam had a point. Dean couldn't remember exactly when he'd crossed the line from drinking for recreation to drinking because he couldn't function without something to steady his nerves. But he knew he _had_ crossed that line.

 _When did I start drinking like Dad did_? Dean shook his head, staring up at the ceiling and suddenly missing his dad in a way he hadn't in years. His thoughts turned to more recent losses and his eyes burned as he thought about Bobby. Shaking his head again, trying to free himself from the memories, he caught sight of Sam's discarded can of Ginger Ale and his stomach flipped.

The passing worry over where Sam went and the fact he was unable to follow him left him feeling even sicker to his stomach. At least it distracted him from the need for a drink. Since Sam didn't seem to be coming back anytime soon, he made his decision. Shoving the nausea, worry, and the blankets aside, Dean made a plan.

His plan was simple. A two step plan, in fact.

Step two was to find Sam.

Step one?

"Where the hell are my pants?"

* * *

 **:D poor Dean.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Hi! Boy, I have no good excuses for why it's taken so long for this chapter. In short, the inner editor took over and beat the inner muse to a pulp. Muse kept trying to get out of the corner with new ideas, but her nose was bleeding and Editor was looming; one hand with a red pen marking up everything in sight, and the other raised in a threatening fist. Poor Muse. Lol! I swear I do not have a life...all I do is go to work and then spend every other second writing. But I've just struggled with this chapter. Well, here it (finally) is. Thank you for your patience and all the kind reviews along the way.  
**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 16: My hands can't reach that far**_

* * *

Sam paused at the end of the hallway. The elevators were to his right and the area was deserted. Even so, he couldn't move toward them. His feet refused to obey the screaming of his mind to get to the elevator and get outside. Left hand clinging to the railing along the wall, Sam pressed his free hand to his eyes and tried to block out the memories that rushed at him.

The far distant memory of the hospital where their dad had died was easy enough to pack up and shove into the corner. It still hurt, never _wouldn't_ , but it was so far in the past that the gaping wound had long since healed. No longer bleeding, it would always remain a jagged scar. Hospitals brought up the worst memories and this time was no different.

A voice over the intercom paged a doctor and Sam shivered. The dim, frightening image of being in an ambulance, voices all around him, Dean shouting at him, followed by an even more frightening blankness flashed into his mind. He couldn't remember why they'd been in an ambulance or when or what had happened afterwards. All he remembered was _fear_.

Fear that only deepened, intensified, as his mind drifted to another hospital. One that he still wasn't convinced hadn't been a hallucination. One where he'd watched yet another person he loved die.

"Bobby," Sam whispered, fighting back the sting of tears. The worst thing about the image of Bobby dying in a hospital bed was the fact that he still wasn't sure if any of it had been real. Dean wasn't talking about Bobby and Sam was too afraid to ask again. The images of that hospital and everything surrounding Bobby's death were clouded with the devil's taunts and smiling face.

Lowering his hand, Sam found himself looking around the hallway, half expecting to see the devil hovering nearby. Because he was always hovering.

But today he wasn't hovering. The hall remained empty, although he could hear a conversation somewhere behind him. The elevator opened a moment later and an old man using a walker eased out, glancing up at the directional sign before shuffling off down the other hallway.

Sam took a cautious breath, grimacing at the smell of the hospital. No matter how they were designed, what the interior decorations looked like, they all bore that same unmistakable _hospital_ smell. Reminded of why he'd left the room in the first place, he pushed off from the wall and headed for the elevator.

Once he'd pushed the down arrow, though, Sam turned around and stared back the way he'd come. Panic smashed into him like a freight train; he couldn't remember Dean's room number. Looking back down the hallway, Sam choked back a groan of frustration and pain. He couldn't leave. Couldn't because he wasn't sure he'd be able to find his way back if he did.

And because he needed to get back to Dean before _he_ did something stupid.

A hint of clarity broke through the fog that he was beginning to worry might be permanent and he headed back down the hallway, ignoring the sound of the elevator arriving. It felt like it took twice as long to get back, and it probably _had_ , but finally, after peeking into two wrong rooms, he looked in the right one and found his brother, just as suspected, in the middle of doing something stupid.

Dean stood in the middle of the room, holding onto the IV pole for dear life as he searched for...something. Feeling a sense of relief at seeing Dean standing up, even if he looked like he wasn't going to be standing up for long, Sam put a hand against the door-frame to brace himself and asked, "What are you doing?"

Dean's head whipped up in surprise and he staggered where he stood. His eyes, bloodshot and creased with pain, widened and his hand tightened on the IV pole he was clinging to. After a few seconds, he gathered his wits and sounded grumpy as he said, "Lookin' for m'pants."

 _To come after me,_ Sam didn't even need to ask for clarification. Dean hadn't been up to moving earlier, and even now, it was obvious that he felt like crap. He was standing up (mostly) hunched over with a hand to his stomach, the other still clinging to the IV pole. Glad he'd come back when he had, Sam kicked himself for leaving in the first place.

"How far'd you get?" Dean interrupted his thoughts.

"Not far." Sam crossed the room, feeling a sense of purpose that he'd been missing. With something to focus on, the nightmares retreated to the edges of his mind. Reaching Dean's side, he tugged on his arm. "Sit down."

Dean grumbled, but didn't pull away or fight him. Which was good for both their sakes because if Dean went down Sam was pretty sure all he'd be able to do was watch. He felt too weak and unsteady to even hope to catch his brother.

Once Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, still with a white-knuckled grip on the IV pole, he looked up with narrowed eyes. "Why'd you come back?"

"I..." Sam started, closing his eyes as a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him.

"Your turn." A warm hand closed around his arm and tugged him forward. "Sit down."

Dropping onto the edge of the bed next to his brother, Sam dug his fingers into the mattress in order to stay upright. He was getting really tired of this. Logically, he knew he needed to eat something. He was shaky and lightheaded, struggling to keep the nausea at bay. But since thinking about eating still conjured up terrifying images of some of the devil's favorite ways to make him scream, Sam figured he could go a little longer on adrenaline alone.

"Sam?" Dean said it like he'd said it a couple times already. "Why'd you come back? Thought you needed air."

"Thought you said there was air here."

"Haha." Dean did not look amused. At all.

Sam stared at the window across from them. The blinds were closed and he wanted to tear them open so he could see the sky, but didn't feel up to moving. Slanting a quick peek at Dean, he shrugged. "I got to the elevators and realized I didn't even know what room you were in."

Dean sighed and finally released the IV pole. Looking up at the IV fluids and remembering the sight of Dean throwing up blood, a cold sweat broke out over Sam and he stared back at the closed window again; trying to control the way he was shaking. Of course, Dean didn't miss a thing.

"Look, you're not a prisoner. And I don't need a babysitter." Dean elbowed him. "Sam, if you need to go outside, let's go."

 _Let's go_.

As in, let's go _together._ The rock of pressure behind his sternum broke up a little bit at his brother's words. He wanted to take him up on it, but knew the last thing Dean needed right now was to be traipsing around because Sam felt claustrophobic. It still was difficult to draw breath, but Sam shook his head as much to reassure himself as to attempt to convince Dean.

"It's ok. I'm ok. Besides you _do_ need a babysitter. You can't even stand up straight." Sam tried to make it a jab, to sound bitchy, to get the attention off of himself, but wasn't sure he'd pulled it off.

Dean's stare was piercing as he considered. Apparently Dean didn't like what he saw, because he said, "Listen, when they get back...how about you go-"

"Go where?" Sam dragged his gaze from the window and the theoretical freedom beyond it and stared at his brother.

 _You go._

Dean hadn't said _let's go_ this time. _You go._ A vague, nearly disconnected, part of his brain told him that Dean wasn't trying to get rid of him; that he was trying to help and that he should probably listen to the rest of whatever Dean was trying to say before jumping to conclusions.

The rest of his brain screamed a different answer.

 _He wants you gone because he knows you're insane. Knows this is just an illusion. You're not better. You're trying too hard. Pretending. Lying. But Dean can see right through you. He knows you're broken and there's no fixing this kind of crazy._

Around and around, his thoughts spun and the more he tried to rein them in, the more they multiplied _._ Everything he'd been fighting to keep boxed up, all the memories, all the images flashed into his mind again and he knew that Dean knew. Knew how damaged he really was.

 _He remembers everything you did and he knows it would have been better if he'd never come back for you. He wants you gone. He knows it would have been better for you both if you had just-_

"Sam?"

Sam blinked and found himself staring into his brother's fear-stricken eyes. He felt Dean's hands on his face, thumbing away tears and would have been embarrassed if he hadn't been so overwhelmed. Tightening his hand into a fist, he found that he couldn't. Because it was wrapped tightly around Dean's arm.

"Shit." Dean's tone sounded all wrong and so was the expression on his face. "Sam?"

Nodding, trying to reassure him, but unable to speak, Sam closed his eyes. Dean didn't release his grip and the tone of his voice didn't change. "Sam, talk to me. What's going on? You just completely shut down on me, man. For like five minutes."

 _Five minutes?_ Sam opened his eyes and struggled to focus.

"I need to hear _words_ , dude. Like right now."

Mouth dry, Sam said, "Sorry."

"That's one word." Dean took a long, deep breath, shaking his head. He ran his right hand over his face, and let his left hand come to rest at the back of Sam's neck. "Give me another one."

"Really hate this."

"You and me both. What the hell just happened?"

Sam rubbed his eyes. "It's...I...I just really hate hospitals."

Dean shook his head again, still looking freaked out. "That's not good enough. Everyone hates hospitals. You just went catatonic on me. Try again."

"I don't know!" Sam felt like shouting, but didn't have the strength. "I don't know, ok?"

He lowered his head into his hands.

For a few minutes, the room fell silent. Dean's hand never moved from his neck and, even though he could feel the tremors in his brother's hand, Sam was grateful for the support. When Dean spoke again, he sounded a little stronger. "I thought, I _really_ thought that Cas was going to fix all of it."

"He got rid of the devil," Sam said, sensing the bitterness in Dean's tone, "and that's something."

"It's not enough." Dean lowered his hand and the fear in his tone and eyes vanished, replaced with nothing but pure anger. "He did this to you. Cas _did this_ to you."

"I know. I was there, remember?" Sam tried to lighten the mood with a half-hearted smile that died a quick death under Dean's furious glare. Sighing, Sam nodded. "I know. Ok? He screwed up. Trust me, I'm gonna be the first one to agree on that point. But we've screwed up too. More than once. In fact, if _I_ hadn't screwed up in the first place and been the one to let Lucifer free, we wouldn't even be having this conversation, would we?"

Dean's mouth tightened and there was a dangerous spark in his eyes. "There's more than enough blame to go around on that fiasco, and plenty of it's mine. Now. Are you gonna have another meltdown if I try to finish what I was saying earlier?"

Thrown by the subject change, Sam glared at his brother. "I didn't have a meltdown."

" _Cat-a-ton-ic,_ " Dean replied, drawing the word out dramatically, doing his level best to sound annoyed instead of worried. He held up a hand, fingers splayed and added, "For five minutes."

"It wasn't five minutes."

"Five minutes, Sam. Five minutes and you didn't answer me, you stared straight through me and-" Dean swallowed hard, hand sliding up to press against his stomach. "I thought-"

"I know what you thought," Sam cut him off. Trying to be reassuring, he offered a weak smile. "And I'm sorry. It's not like I'm doing it on purpose. I guess we're both going to have to...I don't know, realize that this is the way it's going to be. For awhile."

Dean shifted, studying him closely. After a few seconds, he seemed to accept that and move on. "What I was _trying_ to say was, when the Penders get back here, how about you go with them?"

"Where?"

"Wherever. They've got a place on the lake. Go there, go anywhere, I don't care. Look, I'm not gettin' outta here for awhile, but you don't need to sit here losing your mind. Again."

Sam glared at him again. "Thanks."

Dean offered a weary grin that did more to alleviate some of Sam's anxiety than anything else had. "Seriously. Arla'll take you home in a heartbeat and feed you and-"

"Thought you weren't sure we could trust them."

"I'm not sure about _anything_ , Sam."

"They're _them_ right? Not-"

"Leviathans?" Dean offered softly. "I don't think so. I mean, we haven't seen them in years. And no one except you and me even _knows_ them. The big mouths...how would they know to copy them? And no one knew where we were going. _I_ didn't even know where we were going after we left that hospital. Be a heck of an elaborate plan. I think it's a pure coincidence, or maybe a bit of actual good luck, that we wound up in the same random Indiana town as them."

"Should we-" Sam started, struggling to remember what he wanted to say.

"Test 'em?" Dean supplied, sounding as drained as Sam felt. "Probably. I don't know about you, but I'm not feeling up to running to a supply closet for some Borax right now."

"So we trust them?"

"For now. I mean, if they wanted to eat us-"

"They wouldn't have brought us to a hospital." Sam nodded, feeling more settled, more confident.

"Yeah. Probably. So go sit back down and drink the rest of that Ginger Ale, will you?" Dean gave him a gentle push. "If you're sure you've got enough air, that is."

Sam wasn't sure if he'd have enough air and the same panic was starting to creep up on him again, but he felt a measure of relief just listening to his brother's voice; a bit stronger and a bit safer. Sinking back down onto the couch, he watched as Dean struggled to get resettled in bed and Sam was glad he'd come back if only to keep Dean from falling flat on his face.

He picked up the can of soda and took a careful sip, trying to concentrate on the noise from the television and ignore the way his skin was crawling. Swallowing hard, knowing Dean was watching his every move, Sam found himself desperately hoping he wasn't going to throw up all over the hospital floor.

* * *

"It's all your fault." Arla fought to keep her smile hidden.

Tommy glanced at her as he parked the car, mischief sparkling in his eyes, _as usual_. He said, "It _was_ my fault. I freely admit it. I apologize for your injury. Although, I do know this smokin' hot doctor who could take a look at it for you."

Try as she might, Arla couldn't contain her laughter. She punched him in the shoulder. "I've had worse."

Tommy leaned closer for a kiss. He winked. "But it was worth it, right?"

Shooting him a glare, she rubbed her hip pointedly. "I'm not sure. It's a pretty significant bruise."

"How about I put something on it for you," he kissed her shoulder, "ice pack? Hmm...heat? Maybe a massage? You. Me. Later."

Arla pulled him up for another kiss and laughed. "Tommy. Be serious. Vacation is gonna have to wait."

"I know." He smiled and straightened, pulling the keys from the ignition. "Gotta say, it started off well, though. That was a good shower."

" _Good_?" Arla's eyebrows rose as she got out of the car. "Good? That's all?"

Tommy grinned at her over the roof of the car. "Ok, it was a _really great_ shower. Until you bashed your hip, I'd say it was easily top ten."

Arla rolled her eyes. "Now you're exaggerating."

"Never." He joined her on the other side of the car and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "So."

"So?"

"So, are we placing bets on if they're both where we left them?"

"They better be!" Arla shook her head. _Thanks, dear. I had about twenty minutes where I wasn't worrying about them. Thanks for making me worry again._

Tommy guided her past the crowd of people unloading and loading into cars and opened a side door for her. He took her hand and led the way to the elevators, saying, "I hope so too, but I'm not sure I'd place any money on it."

"They can't very well go far," Arla punched the button for the correct floor once they were in the elevator and crossed her arms, "we have their gear."

"You think they haven't cut and run without their gear before, hon?" Tommy's smile was gentle. He waited until a handful of people got off on the third floor and they were alone before he continued, "The only thing that they need is each other. I'm convinced of that."

"You're right. I know you are. But they _better be_ where we left them or I'm going to hunt them down and-" She broke off as the door opened to reveal a family with a bunch of kids waiting for the elevator. Forcing a smile, she sidestepped them and headed down the hall.

Arla kicked herself all the way to Dean's room. She never should have left them. _The only thing the need is each other_. Tommy was absolutely right about that and, stepping into the room, Arla found herself surprised _not_ to find it empty. She paused just inside the doorway, taking in the sight of Dean. Right where she'd left him. He was staring up at the tv and flipping through the channels in disinterest.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Arla surveyed the room and realized Sam was missing. Before she could say anything, Dean glanced over and the expression on his face was a shocked mixture of relief and worry. He dropped the remote and waved her closer, sparing a quick glance at the closed bathroom door.

"Hey. You gotta get him out of here."

Arla frowned, stopping at his bedside. She caught Tommy's concerned eye, then looked back at Dean and asked, "What?"

"Sam." Dean waved a thumb over his shoulder at the bathroom, voice kept low. "You gotta get him out of here. He's gonna have a nervous breakdown if he sits in here any longer."

"Has he been-"

"He's been not good is what he's been." Dean's whisper turned harsh. Desperate. He looked over his shoulder again then said, "He took a walk like twenty minutes ago. Didn't get far. Came back here and just shut down on me." Dean broke off, his dread palpable. "Staring right at me and I couldn't-"

He fell silent and Arla nodded, hoping against hope that this was something fixable. She asked softly, "How's he doing now?"

"Not much better. He's so jumpy that I'm waiting for him to bounce out the window. I don't know. He-"

The bathroom door opened and Dean's attention immediately was on his brother.

"Hey Sam, look who dropped by."

Arla could sense Dean's caution in how he spoke. It was obvious that he wasn't sure how his brother was going to react to their presence. She wasn't sure either, but when Sam caught sight of them and smiled, a bit of her worry went away.

Sam leaned against the doorway and said a soft hello but didn't come any closer.

"Hi, Sam." She returned his smile, immediately noticing the nervous energy he was attempting to conceal. "Good to see you on your feet."

"Yeah, uh," he glanced over at Dean, then Tommy, then continued, "thanks for everything last night."

"I was glad to be able to help."

Sam nodded, again seeking eye contact with his brother before he looked past her and said, "Hey, Tommy. Nice to see you."

"Nice to see you again, too," Tommy said, placing a gentle hand on Arla's back as he continued, "You look like you need to take a walk, Sam. Stretch your legs. Wanna help me find some lunch?"

Arla wasn't sure which of the three of them was the most surprised by his suggestion. Dean looked as flabbergasted as she felt, but before either of them could say anything, Sam was pushing himself away from the doorway with a quiet, "Sure."

She turned to Tommy, ready to protest, especially given how unsteady and ill Sam looked, but there was a calm surety in Tommy's expression that she chose not to question. Besides, Sam was halfway to the door and that told her everything she needed to know. He needed this. Needed to get out of the room, out of the hospital. Given Dean's remarks, she knew he knew it too. So she just grabbed the jacket she'd left on the back of the couch the night before and handed it to Sam.

"Thanks." He took it with a smile, then paused and said to Dean, "Stay out of trouble. Back in a bit."

And then he was out the door without another word and without waiting for anyone else to say anything. Tommy grinned and simply turned around and followed him. Arla met Dean's dumbfounded stare.

"Of _all_ the ways I imagined that going," he looked back to the door, "I never thought it would go that way."

"You and me both." Arla shook her head. "But you did say he needed to get out of here for awhile."

Dean turned back to her, still stunned. "Guess I underestimated exactly how much he needed to."

Smiling, Arla took a seat in the recliner next to the bed. With only one Winchester left in front of her to assess, she settled in to see how far she would get with Dean. He seemed a bit more functional, but remained pale and drawn. She didn't know what the chances would be that she'd get any straight answers from him, but decided it was worth a shot.

"How are you doing, Dean? Sounds like it's been a stressful morning."

He snorted. "I thought I was stressed _before_ he woke up."

"Worse after he woke up, huh?"

"Bad to worse in a matter of minutes."

"What happened?" Arla saw the defenses go up in his eyes. For a moment she was certain he would shut her out.

Instead, he sank back into the pillows and said, "At first he was, you know, just trying to wake up and figure out what was going on. Then, he...I'm not sure if he's still seeing things or if-"

"If he's having flashbacks?" Arla offered when he faltered. She regretted giving voice to his fear, but knew it needed to be said.

Dean studied her for a long time. His gaze drifted to the door and he said, "It's been this way for a long time. I mean, at the end, the past couple of weeks-" he broke off and the expression on his face told her exactly how bad things had been the past couple of weeks. Shaking his head, he went on, "Sad to say, I've gotten used to him seeing things, reacting to things that aren't there. But the cause of the hallucinations is gone so I thought it would be better now."

"And that's because of the thing your friend did? The friend with the mysterious abilities?"

"Yeah. And Sam was better. Really better. The difference at first was night and day and I thought we were in the clear. He'd been so close. So close to-" Dean left the thought unfinished. "But now, it's like we're back to square one. He's acting like he did at first with the hallucinations. He's not handling the hospital very well and I want him out of here but-"

"But?" Arla waited, watching the turmoil in his eyes as he gathered his thoughts.

"I'm afraid maybe he needs more help." Dean said it like he was admitting a deep, dark secret.

Arla chose her words carefully. "Maybe he does. Or maybe he just needs more _time_."

Dean looked doubtful, so she continued quickly, "It's only been a few days. Right? Just a few days since everything happened."

"Yes, but-"

Arla held up a hand. "But nothing. I know you're worried and I know you don't want to hear this, but, Dean, you have to give him some time! You may have thought, hoped even, that what your friend was doing would be an instant fix-"

"It sure as hell should've been after what he did to Sam in the first place." Dean spat the words out, then seemed shocked that he'd said it aloud.

While she was curious what he meant by that, she didn't need a neon sign to tell her that it would be best for her not to press the subject. Instead, she tried to refocus him. "The root cause may be gone, but he's still dealing with the leftover trauma that whatever he went through created. He's trying to deal with everything going on in his head _and_ withdrawal from some heavy-duty medications on top. He is sick and exhausted. It's to be expected that he would be struggling. He needs time to heal."

Dean nodded, accepting her words, but not looking reassured.

"You _both_ need time to heal." Arla had to smile at the dirty look she got. Laughing, she said, "Don't look at me like that. It may have been years ago but I've seen you both down and out before. And, like it or not, you're both down and out again. And you need to give yourselves time to recover."

"We don't have time for this."

"No one does." Arla shook her head, frustration rising despite how bad she felt for him. "Do you think anyone has time for illness or injury? You two are out there fighting people's worst nightmares and I understand that you don't get vacations or sick days, but you know what? Neither do a lot of people. People have families to support, kids to feed. And they wind up suffering from ulcers and pneumonia and mental illness and they have to keep getting up in the morning and packing their kids lunches."

Dean dropped his gaze away from hers and she knew he was getting her point. Gentling her tone, Arla went on, "The lunches for the kids, the job, the time clock, and the evil monsters hiding in the dark will all still be there. This is what I have had to tell so many people that I've taken care of over the years. It's all there and you still have all that to deal with, but if you don't take time to recuperate, you're going to kill yourself."

"I know." Dean's voice was ragged, strained. "There's just _so much_. Always so much to do and you don't even know how bad it is right now."

"No, I don't. What I do know is that you two boys are literally the only people we know who _do_ know how bad it is right now. And I want to see you both feeling back to 100% and dealing with the monsters. Ok? That's all I want. But I need you, _you_ , to understand that. Sam's going to follow your lead. He always does. If you don't get a handle on your stress, your drinking, and your _anxiety_ over everything you're fighting out there and how your brother is doing, he's not going to get better. How is he ever going to manage his anxiety if you aren't managing yours?"

"He'll listen to you."

"Not if he's _looking_ to you." Arla smiled. "You think he's going to do anything I say if you're doing the exact opposite? Not likely."

Dean heaved a heavy sigh and said, "You're kind of bossy, you know that?"

"People have said that about me a time or two. Does that mean you're listening to me?"

"I'm listening." He shifted and tried not to look as uncomfortable as he no doubt was. "So what. You want me to take a vacation? Sammy, pack a suitcase, we're going to the Bahamas?"

Sensing both his bitterness and an underlying hopelessness, Arla said, "I'd love for you to have a vacation. I would. But I also understand that may not be possible right now. What I want is for you to simply get a few days of rest. You don't want to hear it, but I'm just as concerned about you as I am about Sam."

To her surprise, he didn't argue or even attempt to say he was fine.

 _Progress._

* * *

 **Hope it was worth the wait! PS I have another chapter that I'll be posting either tonight when I get home from work or tomorrow morning. Lol...I'm such a cheater haha. This chapter was becoming insanely long so I split it into two chapters. But, hey, you'll get another chapter, so that's not a bad thing, right? Any votes? Should I post tonight or tomorrow? :) Thanks for reading!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Apparently, another chapter tonight was the winning vote. :) Happy to oblige! Enjoy and thank you for all the reviews! Thank you to all my guest reviewers! I appreciate each and every one of your reviews even if I can't personally reply to you! Thank you for the support!**

* * *

 **Chapter 17: My hands can't reach that far, part two**

Tommy knew it was a little early for lunch, but no one called him on it. And, hey, if the distraction managed to alleviate even a little of the barely disguised terror in Sam's eyes, then it was worth it. Tommy spared a quick glance as the elevator descended. Sam was leaning against the wall, one hand on the rail, head lowered and eyes closed. Since leaving the room, neither of them had said one word. Considering how tense the kid looked, Tommy kept his mouth shut for the time being.

The elevator paused two floors from where they were heading and Sam opened his eyes, assessing gaze on the doors as they opened. A young couple got into the elevator and Tommy slid to the side enough to give them room while trying not to crowd Sam. The couple sent polite smiles their way, but Tommy could see the hint of sympathy when they smiled at Sam. Given how rough he looked, Tommy couldn't blame them. They probably, and understandably, assumed he was a patient. When Sam smiled back, apparently unperturbed, and let his gaze drift to the floor, Tommy relaxed.

The elevator reached the main floor and the couple got out. Tommy stepped forward to hold the doors open. Sam slowly moved forward and Tommy had a brief moment of concern wondering if perhaps this hadn't been the best idea. The kid looked like he was on the verge of collapse. But then Tommy remembered what Dean had said and the utterly trapped expression in Sam's eyes despite the friendly smile as he'd stepped out of the bathroom and knew he'd made the right choice.

Sam needed fresh air and food and in that order.

Sam's gaze flitted around the busy hallway for a split second before he looked at Tommy, that trapped expression flashing into his eyes again. Tommy smiled and said, "Busy place. But I saw a nice quiet spot outside with some tables and trees. How's that sound?"

"Sounds good." Sam sounded uneasy, but he was following Tommy without hesitation.

The quickest route to the little outside seating area was straight through the cafeteria and Tommy wasn't sure how Sam would react to that, but there was no way he was making the kid walk all the way to the main entrance. He looked like they'd already walked too far. Slowing his pace, Tommy made sure he was close enough to provide a supporting hand if Sam lost his balance.

Walking through the cafeteria, a dozen delicious smells had Tommy's stomach growling even though he'd had several of Arla's homemade muffins before they'd left the cottage. If Sam wanted any of it, it wasn't obvious from his expression. The only obvious thing he wanted was a place to sit down.

"Weathers great today, nice breeze." Tommy held the door open for Sam and pointed him to the nearest table.

Sam didn't comment on the weather, but made a beeline for the closest chair. He sat down heavily and gripped the edge of the table. Eyes closed, he tilted his head up and some of the tension melted out of him as the breeze blew the hair back from his eyes. Tommy smiled, knowing he'd made the right decision. He wasn't sure if he should sit down for a moment or if moving would break the spell. He wanted to get back to the cafe before the lunch rush actually began and find something to offer Sam that he might actually eat.

"You don't have to stay." Sam didn't open his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere. Go grab your lunch."

Tommy hesitated, but nodded. "Ok. I'll grab something and be right back."

Sam nodded. Tommy headed back inside to find them _both_ something to eat. He didn't offer to find something for Sam because it was easier to bring something back than to ask and have him say he didn't want anything. Pulling the door open, he took another quick peek, found Sam hadn't moved an inch, so he stepped inside and headed for the food.

The rush had yet to begin which gave him opportunity to peruse the possibilities. The lasagna looked amazing and his mouth watered at the sight of the juicy cheeseburgers and fries, but he kept moving.

Grabbing a tray, he selected a couple bottles of water and a bottle of _7-Up_. Two bowls of soup and a pile of crackers joined the beverages and he grabbed a turkey sandwich along with two single serving vanilla ice cream cups. Satisfied he had a decent selection of non-anxiety producing foods that might tempt an uneasy stomach, Tommy got into line. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw that Sam was where he'd left him.

Paying for the food, he headed back toward the door, his thoughts drifting back to the unfinished letter he'd discovered in Sam's backpack. To say he was uncertain how to handle the situation was putting it mildly. Even after reading the letter, he had no idea what exactly the kid had gone through, but from the letter and what he'd already observed, Tommy had an idea that the repercussions of the trauma were far-reaching and nearly crippling. Working on the police force as long as he had, Tommy was no stranger to PTSD. And, without a doubt, he knew that was what he was looking at now.

Reaching the door, Tommy decided he would allow Sam to be the guide. It would do no good for him to press and then have Sam shut down on him and cut off any possibility of communication. It was an incredible relief that the kid had reacted so well to their presence in the first place. He didn't want to take any chances on losing that gift.

He pulled the door open and saw that the other tables remained unoccupied. Which was good. The fewer people around the better. Sam had his elbows resting on the table, head lowered and hands clasped behind his neck. Tommy felt tired just looking at him; he knew the exhaustion wasn't just physical, but also mental and emotional. As he drew nearer, Sam startled and pushed himself up, looking over his shoulder.

When he caught sight of him, though, Sam slumped a bit lower in the chair. Relieved that his presence seemed to alleviate some of the anxiety, Tommy smiled. "Hey. Found a few things to try. It all looked good so I grabbed a little of everything."

Taking a seat, he set the tray down and immediately placed a container of soup in front of Sam. He held out a spoon and waited. It was a gamble, and he knew he was taking a big chance. Tommy didn't know how Sam was going to handle this, but he hoped he knew what he was doing. Hoped that he'd read the kid right, that he remembered him well enough. For the space of several dozen heartbeats, he wasn't sure. He held Sam's gaze and watched the emotions that were all so close to the surface, yet still so carefully guarded.

Sam took the spoon.

Cheering silently in his head, Tommy remained casual and set the bottle of _7-Up_ and a bottle of water next to the soup. He unwrapped the sandwich and set half of it on a napkin in front of Sam. The silence continued.

After finishing a bite of his half of the sandwich, he tried his luck at attempting a conversation. "I can go back and grab some chips."

"No. No, uh, this is, this is fine," Sam stammered out, staring down at the food and looking so sick that Tommy was afraid he was going to throw up.

The spoon lowered and Tommy held his breath. He silently chewed on the sandwich and tried not to stare at Sam. Empty chatter was a consideration, but he kept silent. Tommy had a feeling a little bit of silence wasn't such a bad thing. So he ate his sandwich, opened a bottle of water and waited. He'd finished his sandwich before Sam said anything.

"It shouldn't be this hard."

Tommy lowered his water bottle. He'd hoped the kid would talk to him, but knew he still needed to tread carefully. So he simply acknowledged Sam's statement. "But it is."

"Yeah." Sam stared down at the food in front of him without a hint of interest, although his face had lost some of the concerning green tinge.

After a couple minutes passed without further comment, Tommy tapped the second bottle of water and said, "You've gotta be thirsty."

Sam reached for the bottle. It took a bit of work for him to get the lid off, but he managed it and took a drink. Once he finished, Tommy pointed at the container of soup. "Give it a try before it cools off."

He opened his own container of soup and took a spoonful even though he hated soup. If Arla's home cooking wasn't enough to create a soup he'd actually find tolerable, he knew the hospital's kitchen hadn't stood a chance. But he ate it anyway. Crumbling up some crackers into the soup didn't really improve the flavor, but it bought some time and provided a distraction. Tommy kept his eyes on the vegetables floating in front of him, but caught sight of Sam fumbling with the lid on his own container of soup.

Again, Tommy wanted to cheer but, again, remained silent. He slowly ate the soup, watching surreptitiously as Sam took two or three bites then stopped. Looking up, he saw that Sam's eyes were closed and he was slumped forward, swallowing hard. It took a few seconds, but the moment passed without issue, and Sam looked up at him.

He narrowed his eyes, eyes studying Tommy carefully, then asked, "What happened to your hair?"

Tommy laughed, running a hand over his head, and offered what had become his standard excuse, "Grandkids happened."

Sam's smile was weak but genuine, and he took another drink of water, seeming to relax. "You guys still live in Arizona?"

"Still do."

"How'd you wind up in-" Sam paused, smile disappearing as he seemed to lose himself in thought. He looked around, then shrugged, resigned. "I don't even remember where we are."

"Indiana," Tommy supplied, taking another spoonful of soup before continuing, "Arla's family has a cabin on the lake. We all take turns spending our vacations out here."

Sam nodded, looking back down at the bowl of soup with a pained expression.

"Sandwich wasn't half bad," Tommy commented, hoping the kid wasn't giving up yet. He needed to eat but Tommy didn't dare say so.

"What day is it?" Sam asked, picking up the sandwich and taking a bite.

"Friday."

Sam snorted and smiled half-heartedly as he said, "Not that it really matters. I haven't known what day it is for weeks. Can't keep track of anything."

"I've been there," Tommy said, finishing his bowl of soup. "Hard to get your feet back under you but it'll get better."

He wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. Sam shot him a sharp glance, then concentrated on another bite of the sandwich. Tommy finished his bowl of soup and reached for one of the cups of ice cream. Sam took another bite of the sandwich, his gaze drifting from the table as he began to show signs of interest in his surroundings for the first time. Initially, he seemed fine, simply taking a casual glance around. Then he stiffened.

"Do you hear someone talking?" Sam's tone was hesitant, his posture tense again.

They were out of Sam's view, but Tommy could see a couple guys smoking around the corner from where he sat. He thought about the letter that Sam had written and how he'd talked about not being sure what was real and what wasn't. Tommy kept his voice soft, but sure. "I hear them. A couple guys around the corner there."

"Ok." Sam breathed out, the tension draining out of him. He set the sandwich down, resting an elbow on the table and pressing his head into his hand. After a few seconds, he said, "I should go back."

"Back?"

"Inside. I need to make sure Dean's-"

"Dean's fine." Tommy shook his head. _What you need to do is eat some more food before you pass out._ "Arla's going to keep him in line for you."

Sam lifted his head with effort and met Tommy's gaze with a smile. "You're probably right about that."

"He's going to be ok, Sam."

Sam picked up the sandwich again and said quietly, "Sometimes I'm not sure."

* * *

Dean knew better than to say he was fine.

She wouldn't believe him if he said so and he didn't feel up to bothering to even attempt convince her. He wasn't fine. Wasn't even close. He felt shaky and nauseated despite the medications they were giving him. His head hurt. His gut hurt. His throat hurt. Part of it was probably from the tube they'd jammed down his throat to visualize the ulcer in his stomach. Part of it, Dean was loathe to admit, was probably because he was getting sick. He'd been feeling it for a few days, actually, and given how run down he was, it wasn't unexpected for him to catch a cold.

Didn't mean it didn't piss him off, though.

Because everything _else_ they'd gone through wasn't enough. Wasn't enough that he'd landed in the hospital. No, no, to make it all even more special, he was coming down with a cold. The fever wasn't as bad as it had been, but he felt overly warm and still too weak and dizzy to even attempt to bust out.

"All that thinking is going to give you a headache." Arla's soft voice broke into his thoughts.

"Too late," He admitted, rubbing a hand over his forehead. The desire to sleep pulled at him but he was too wound up to sleep. Especially with an absent little brother.

 _What were you thinking? You don't know that he's safe out there with Tommy._ Considering some of the violent reactions Sam had displayed earlier, Dean rubbed his bruised jaw and realized he wasn't sure _Tommy_ was safe with Sam either. Who knew what might set him off? And Dean hated himself even for thinking it. Because it made it seem like Sam was as crazy as he was acting. _You should never have let him out of your sight._

Dean opened his mouth to ask Arla to call Tommy and see if Sam was ok, but before he could do so, there was a knock at the door.

"Dean?" A short guy with a stethoscope walked in. "I'm Dr. Moorland."

 _Great. Another doctor._

"How are you feeling this morning?" The doctor asked, sizing Dean up behind his glasses.

He might not be able to lie to Arla, but there was no way he wasn't gonna try with this guy. Dean forced a casual smile and said, "Great. How 'bout we start talking discharge? I got places to be, doc."

The doctor continued studying him, took a quick peek at Arla, then asked, "Would you prefer your Aunt to step out, Dean, or-"

Waving a hand, Dean said, "She's fine. What's the verdict? When can I check out?"

"Well," Dr. Moorland started, hesitating, "you were very ill and I'd like to keep you on the IV medications for another twenty-four hours, at least, to help your stomach heal."

Dean didn't want to hear it, and the rest of the doctor's monologue turned into a few scattered blurbs of things like _severe anemia, dehydration, malnutrition, exhaustion_ and _vitamin deficiency._ In all honesty, Dean wasn't paying that much attention. It was difficult to focus on anything the doctor was saying when the only thing he could think about was if Sam were ok or if he were out there somewhere having a nervous breakdown.

Besides, he figured Arla would be taking notes and since there was precious little chance of getting rid of her anytime soon, he resigned himself to his fate. He wasn't getting a choice about the second night's stay and since Sam wasn't in any kind of shape to get them out of here anyway, Dean decided not to fight that losing battle.

So he _uh-huh'd_ and _ok'd_ whatever Dr. Moorland said until the man finally went away.

"You're really not too fond of doctors, are you?" Arla asked a moment after the doctor walked out.

"Some of 'em aren't so bad." He forced a quick smile.

"Well, thank you for that, anyway." She laughed, then sobered. "Did you listen to anything he said?"

"Yeah. Sure. Bottom line, stuck here till tomorrow."

"No, bottom line, you haven't been taking care of yourself and you just had a serious health crisis here, Dean. It's not something to brush off."

Something deep inside snapped. His voice low and dangerous, Dean said, "I've been a little busy lately trying to make sure my brother doesn't dive off the deep end. So I'm sorry if between him and his broken brain and the Leviathans eating everything in sight, I forgot to take my multivitamin every morning."

Dean hated that he was taking all this out on her, but found himself unable to stop, "We've got nothing left. _Nothing_. We lost everything this year. Ok? And even though he's walking and talking and mostly seems to be in the same reality as me for once, I'm not sure...I don't know if-"

"If you still might lose him?" Arla offered softly.

Deflating back into the pillows, Dean nodded. Might as well admit it. The sheer dread he felt left him breathless. They'd lost Cas, Bobby and even Frank, their last ally in the fight against Dick Roman. All they had left was each other and he would have been lying if he'd said that sometimes he wasn't sure that he hadn't _already_ lost Sam.

Arla was quiet for a long time. Dean knew that she was every bit as out of her element as he was. At least he had the advantage of growing up in a life of crazy where crap like this might as well have been considered normal. Feeling bad for, once again, having brought a nice couple into the dark nightmares of his world, Dean struggled to come up with something to say. Before his aching head and overwrought brain could think of anything, Arla spoke.

"We're going to help him." There was nothing but confidence in her voice. "You haven't lost him, Dean. If you let me help _you_ get better, I think you're going to find that Sam gets better too."

He nodded, throat tight. It felt like he'd been on a carnival ride for the past few days. One minute up and thinking things would be ok, and the next, crashing to the ground and realizing _nothing_ was ok. As much as he hated relying on her, as much as he hated that he didn't really have a choice, Dean relaxed. Because he _did_ trust her like he trusted so very few people these days. His thoughts drifted back to the moment when she'd arrived at the cabin and pushed her way past his defenses.

Straightening, he took a sip of water to ease the burn in his throat, then asked, "Been meaning to ask you."

"What about?"

"Are you really a black belt in...what did you say? Krav Maga?"

"I may have exaggerated." Arla laughed.

"So you lied." Dean smirked, remembering her bold move of trying to talk him down and get into the room. "You took a chance and bluffed your way past me."

"I did. I lied. Sorry, Dean, I'm not a saint."

 _Could've fooled me_. He asked, "So you aren't a black belt?"

"I'm not any kind of belt. I _was_ signed up for classes." She explained, settling back in her chair with a smile. "Evening classes right after my shift was over."

"Why didn't you go?"

"I met Tommy." Arla shrugged, her smile even brighter. "He came in drunk and stupid that night. Fell out of a window and was bleeding all over the place."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "You were the doc-"

"I was an intern. And I was almost done with my shift. Ready to go learn how to defend myself. But then he came in and I was the one who got the privilege of stitching him up."

"Love at first stitch, huh?" Dean grinned, although his heart was only half in it.

"Not quite. I laid into him the whole time. Told him what a fool he was and how lucky he was to be alive. I'd say it was closer to the twentieth stitch before he started to win me over with his charm." She rolled her eyes. "He asked me out while I put the last stitch in."

"And you said yes?"

"He's the reason I never did go to my self-defense classes."

"Hope you got your money back at least," Dean said, glancing at the door at yet another knock.

This time it was a tray of food. _Liquid_ food which shouldn't even be classified as food, in his opinion. Staring at the tray, he said, "Don't suppose I could talk you into getting me a cheeseburger."

Arla laughed, "You finish everything on that tray, Dean Winchester, and then we'll talk about burgers."

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 **Hope you enjoyed! I'm going to do my very best not to have such a long delay between this and the next chapter! Thank you for your patience and continued support! You guys are the best!**


	18. Ch18: Be the one to light the way

**Hi! I didn't fall of the face of the earth. Promise. :) had a lot of stuff going on in my life recently, some good (my dad retired! and a vacay over Labor day weekend), and some very not good that has been dragging me down. But today's a new day...and today's a posting day! Thank you all for the reviews to the last chapters, sorry i haven't dropped you a personal thank you yet. I hope you enjoy this chapter and I'm sorry it took such a looooong time arrive.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 18: Be the one to light the way**_

Sam stared down at the remaining portion of the sandwich he'd been forcing himself to eat and couldn't bring himself to touch it again. Reaching for the bottle of water instead, he took a cautious sip and watched Tommy finish the little cup of ice cream he'd been eating. Tommy met his gaze and lifted the second cup in a silent offer. Sam shook his head. There was no way he felt up to eating the ice cream, considering how difficult he'd found it to choke down the sandwich and soup.

Watching Tommy begin to clean up the trash, Sam knew he wasn't supposed to feel pressured, but he did. Pressured to eat. Pressured to get back inside to make sure Dean was ok. Pressured to get them out of town and back on the road. And pressured to pull himself to together.

Somehow the last task seemed like it was going to be the most difficult to accomplish.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" He pulled his gaze from the now mostly empty table in front of him up to Tommy.

"You finished with the sandwich? Bread was a bit stale, wasn't it?"

Yeah, the bread _had_ been a bit stale, but Sam knew that Tommy had said that as a way to give him an out for not wanting to finish. He appreciated Tommy's tact and wrapped up the sandwich and allowed Tommy put it on the tray with the rest of the trash.

Tommy finished cleaning the area up, leaving the bottle of water and bottle of _7-Up_. "I think I'm going to get a cup of coffee. Anything else you'd like?"

Again, Sam couldn't help but appreciate Tommy's efforts to make it all seem normal. His efforts to treat the situation as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. Sam shook his head. "Thanks. But I'm ok."

Tommy studied him for a moment then stood up and took the trash with him.

As he moved away, any semblance of normal disappeared and Sam was left fighting the urge to get up and run. Without the distraction Tommy had been providing, everything he'd been trying to forget pressed in on him until it felt like he couldn't catch his breath.

"Tommy?" he asked, pushing himself to his feet and feeling a hint of pride that he'd managed the feat without falling over. Pressing a hand to his sore ribs, he was almost tempted to ask for some Tylenol. He dismissed the idea immediately. It was better to be a little sore than to take chances.

"What's up, Sam?" Tommy backtracked until he was next to the table, expression concerned.

Sam hated that everyone was looking at him like that. It frustrated and angered him and yet there was little he could do about it. He tried to control his voice, but it shook nonetheless, "I'm going to take a walk."

There was nowhere to walk and he expected Tommy to shoot down his idea, to tell him he should sit down, take it easy. That's what Dean would have told him. Instead, Tommy said, "Sounds good. I'll grab my coffee and I'll be here whenever you're ready."

Sam was so stunned he couldn't speak. Tommy clapped him on the shoulder and moved away without another word. Sam watched him leave, then turned around and tried to decide where he was planning to go. The desire to go for a run was overwhelming but he was too worn out and in too much pain to even consider it. The best he could hope for at this point was to manage to cross the little seating area and get some distance between him and the hospital.

Reaching the end of the seating area, Sam paused and stared blankly at the street ahead. It was a side access road and beyond it was nothing but a grassy field. He was outside but no less trapped than he had been inside the hospital.

Nowhere to go and nothing but the urge to run.

The blare of a horn made him jump and Sam realized he'd stepped into the road without noticing. Stumbling backwards, he blinked in confusion, registering the blur of a red car as it drove past him. He turned and stepped back onto the sidewalk and collided with a man in a business suit.

"What's wrong with you?" The guy shoved at his shoulder, aggravating his headache and the pain in his chest. He yelled, "Watch where you're walking."

"Sorry," Sam muttered, moving to one side and trying to ignore the sudden dizziness and panic. The guy was too loud and too close.

"What are you even doing out here?" The man took another step toward him and Sam backed away even as the guy kept talking. "They let you out of the nut house too soon looks like."

"Hey!" Another voice, deeper and blessedly familiar, appeared out of nowhere. "Keep walkin', mister."

"Hey," the guy snapped back, voice thick with sarcasm, " _he's_ the one who walked into me so tell _him_ to get out of my way."

Sam opened his mouth to apologize again, but before he could, Tommy stepped in front of him and said, "He's out of your way now."

The guy huffed out an annoyed breath. "What are you, his parole officer?"

"I'm his friend and I'm telling you to get moving." Tommy's voice left no room for argument. "Right now."

The guy shot them both another dirty look and then walked away, muttering to himself.

Tommy turned to him and rested a hand on his shoulder, steadying him as he asked, "You alright?"

Nodding, Sam didn't think he could have sounded or looked convincing no matter how much effort he had put into it. His mouth was dry and his stomach threatened to heave up everything he'd managed to eat in the first place. Tommy didn't question him, though.

He merely took a half step back and let his hand drop as he asked, "Still need to take a walk?"

Actually, sitting down sounded good right about now, but Sam knew there were more important things he needed to do. He needed to get himself under control and stop being such a headcase about everything. Dean needed him to get them back on the road. He knew the pressure his brother was feeling; pressure that only escalated with every minute he remained sitting trapped in a hospital bed. Sam needed to bust him out. Today.

So instead of answering, he said, "I should get back and see how Dean's doing."

"Ok."

As they began walking back toward the entrance, Sam glanced at Tommy and said, "You didn't have to do that."

"Wasn't about something I did or didn't have to do," Tommy said, adjusting his pace to keep up with Sam's ever slowing steps. "I don't like bullies."

Sam studied him for a moment, realizing that there was no pity in Tommy's gaze. He also wasn't looking at Sam like he thought he was something to be ashamed of and it felt good. It felt like maybe he could get past this; get over it. Get better. Sam found himself relaxing. At least until they got closer to the door.

It was one step forward, ten steps back and he found himself unable to overcome the unreasonable fear that came from being faced with re-entering the hospital. He wanted to get back inside and ensure that Dean was still in bed and at least pretending to rest, but Sam couldn't make himself keep moving forward. He stood there, within arm's reach of the door and yet his feet refused to move any closer.

It was ridiculous. Childish. And he couldn't put into words what was making him so nervous because, logically, he knew there was nothing to worry about. Even so, Sam found himself struggling to catch his breath as he stared at the door. Closing his eyes didn't help anything because, once he had done that, flashes of memories better left forgotten assaulted him and the world seemed to shift under his feet.

"How about we sit down for a few minutes?"

Tommy's quiet voice reoriented Sam and he managed to force his eyes open. The unsteadiness and fear were still there and he wasn't able to respond to Tommy's question. A hand appeared on his elbow and Sam found himself guided toward a bench just a few feet to the left of the door.

"I'm in no hurry and I'm sure Arla's watching out for Dean," Tommy added, his voice calm and sure.

It helped, but by the time they'd made it to the bench, dark spots were crowding Sam's vision. Before he knew what was happening, Sam found himself sitting down on the bench with his head between his knees and a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him steady. His head felt like it might spin right off his neck. Taking slow breaths and keeping his eyes tightly closed helped him regain some balance, but he didn't think he could move if he had to.

"You know," Tommy began speaking again, his tone casual as if they were chatting over a couple beers, "this is exactly how I felt when I got to the hospital the day Arla went into labor with the girls. I'd just got off a 24 hour shift and went home to find a note taped on the front door. Didn't have cell phones in those days, you know."

Sam had no idea where Tommy was going with this, but it was calming just listening to him speak; which might have been the whole point anyway.

"Took nearly an hour to get to the hospital and by the time I arrived I was a sweaty, half-panicked mess. I parked and ran all the way to the door. All I wanted to do was get inside and find Arla, but I couldn't even get myself to open the door, I was so nervous. Nearly passed out, in fact."

"Yeah?" Sam opened his eyes, but kept staring at the ground.

"Yeah. Some woman with a kid on her hip found me and pushed me down on the curb and made me sit there until I stopped hyperventilating." Tommy laughed and Sam smiled, pushing himself upright a few inches. "She sat there with me for a good ten minutes and told me everything was going to be alright and that women had been having babies since the beginning of time."

Sam rested his elbows on his knees and concentrated on his breathing.

"I learned something very important that day."

Sam glanced up at him and waited.

"I learned that you can be absolutely, utterly terrified and feel like you're falling to pieces but you can still put yourself back together again."

The full meaning of what Tommy was saying hit Sam. He dropped his gaze back to the pavement, struggling for a full minute to come up with a reply. Tommy saved him the trouble by speaking up first.

"You're not broken, Sam. You got a little banged up in the fight, sure, but it's part of the job."

"I know." Sam nodded, still feeling unsettled. Even a quick glance at the door left him with sweaty palms and a churning stomach.

"Doesn't mean you're going to get over it today. Or this week. And, Sam?" Tommy leaned forward until he was sure Sam's attention was on him before he continued, "You don't _need_ to get over it today or this week. _Nobody_ is putting that kind of pressure on you. You understand that right?"

Nodding, Sam took a shaky breath and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

"You understand it, but do you believe it?" Tommy asked quietly.

Sam didn't respond. He was _trying_ to believe it, but that was the best he was going to be able to manage for the time being.

Tommy nudged his elbow and Sam looked up to see him offering the bottle of _7-Up._ Not sure he felt up to drinking anything, Sam took the bottle and pressed it to his forehead, wishing it would do something to help the throbbing headache that refused to yield.

"How do you feel about sitting here with me for a bit longer?" Tommy asked, settling more comfortably on the bench. "I'll text Arla and see how your brother is doing. How does that sound?"

Sam nodded, closing his eyes and keeping the bottle against his head.

Anything sounded better than having to go back inside the hospital. Even if it meant he was being a terrible, unsupportive brother, Sam couldn't find it in himself to care. He'd listened to his father, and more recently, the devil himself tell him how useless he was; what a failure he'd always been. Why change anything now, Sam decided, squeezing his eyes closed even tighter.

* * *

Arla had watched the smile fade from Dean's face after her comment about burgers. Ever since, they'd been silent. He was making an effort to eat, but his heart was not in it and his mind was elsewhere. Pushing the half-empty bowl of soup away, Dean's gaze went straight back to the clock. She checked her watch again. They really hadn't been gone very long, but given the circumstances, Arla knew that any amount of time Sam was out of Dean's sight was too long.

She started to offer to text Tommy to see how they were doing, but Dean spoke up first. "You have our gear, right?"

He didn't look happy about the thought and she figured he was going to ask her, _tell her_ , to bring it up. Probably followed by dismissal of her services. Mentally preparing herself, Arla said, "We picked it up for you boys. Is there something you need?"

"Phone would be good." He took a sip of the water, then pushed the tray away.

"They're charging. They were both dead."

"I'm sure they were." Dean rubbed at his chest, giving her a quick nod. "Thanks."

Arla smiled, hoping that would be the end of it. She wasn't sure how Dean was going to take it when he realized their gear wasn't _here_. Dean still was as astute as ever, though, and when his eyes narrowed, Arla knew she was busted.

"You're sneaky, you know that?" Dean said, and there was a hint of a smile on his tired face this time. "You took it all to your place, didn't you?"

Since he didn't seem to be furious about it, Arla returned the smile and said, "Did you think I _wouldn't_ take it home?"

Dean sighed and leaned back into the pillows and said, "No, I figured you probably would."

"Is it a problem, Dean?" Arla asked, hoping he would accept her efforts to help.

"No, it's fine." He sounded resigned, not angry. "Sam's gonna need to get out of here anyway. Everything he's gone through...it's...he's not acting like himself."

Arla leaned forward, wishing she had more than what could basically be described as empty platitudes. "He's going to get there. Right now, he's just affected by the withdrawal and exhaustion."

Dean nodded. "Which is why you need to get him out of here."

"I understand your concern, but I'm not doing anything that he doesn't want to do."Arla broke off as her phone alerted her to an incoming text. Sensing Dean's instant worry, Arla checked the text, already knowing it was from Tommy.

"Tommy?" Dean asked, leaning forward and looking like he might actually try to take the phone right out of her hand.

Nodding, Arla skimmed the text and wished it was better news.

"What'd he say?"

Arla lowered the phone and said, "Sam's fine. They're just sitting outside for a bit."

"Did he eat anything?"

"Let me check," Arla said, sending Tommy a quick reply.

"What aren't you telling me?" Dean asked while they waited for a response.

"Nothing really. Tommy said they were going to come back up but that Sam's having a little trouble getting through the door. So they're taking their time."

From the expression on Dean's face, Arla knew that he didn't like the news any more than she did. Her phone chirped again and she glanced back at the text, relieved that this time she had something a little more positive to report. "He ate some soup and part of a sandwich."

"That's something anyway," Dean said, although it sounded like he was asking a question.

"It's very good," Arla said quickly, offering him the reassurance he needed.

Dean waved a hand at the phone. "Tell him he doesn't have to come back in here if he doesn't want to. I'm fine. Nothing he needs to be here for."

"Ok." Arla texted Tommy again, then said, "If he doesn't feel up to coming back inside, we can certainly take him to our place if that's ok with both of you."

"We got nowhere else to go." Dean shrugged, looking away.

"It's no trouble." Arla smiled briefly, feeling Dean's despair.

She knew that he never would have accepted her help if they hadn't already been stretched far past their limit. And he certainly wouldn't be accepting her offer to take Sam somewhere that he couldn't personally keep an eye on him if he wasn't desperate.

Arla checked her phone again, then said, "I do have one question for you, if that's ok."

"Ask away."

"What's a leviathan?" Arla asked, sensing right away that it was something Dean would rather not talk about.

His expression darkened, but he answered her anyway. "They're monsters. Trying to take over the world."

"Monsters. As in literal monsters right? Not just psychopathic people?"

"Literal monsters. Spewing black goo everywhere. Eatin' people."

"Literally eating people?"

"Literally eating people." Dean's smile was humorless and brief.

Arla wanted to laugh. To roll her eyes at the utter nonsense of it all, but she knew better. She knew Dean was telling her the complete truth. She asked, "How did they...where did they come from?"

Dean snorted and his expression darkened again. "Long story short, another monster did a lot of stupid stuff that I warned him not to do and wound up bringing them here from where they belonged."

Sensing bitterness in his tone, Arla decided not to press the subject. She simply asked, "Is there anything I need to know about them for our own protection?"

"They can look like anyone. Only way we know to figure out that someone is one of 'em is to splash 'em with anything that has Borax in it. Burns their skin. Only way to stop 'em is to chop off their head. Doesn't exactly kill 'em but it does slow them down a bit anyway."

From the casual way he spoke, Arla could almost let herself pretend that they were talking about a sci-fi show and not an actual, legitimate threat in the real world. But she knew better. She knew he was telling her the truth. Which made it all that much more terrifying.

Silence fell again as Arla tried to wrap her head around a new breed of monsters and Dean worried about his brother. He stared at the television, but she could tell he wasn't listening to anything that was being said. When she glanced at her watch next, Arla was surprised to see that almost fifteen minutes had passed in silence.

Checking her phone, she had it open at the same moment that a text came in.

"How's he doing?" Dean's voice sounded rough and Arla wanted to get him a cup of hot

tea with honey, but somehow doubted he'd be a fan.

She read the text, then met his anxious gaze and said, "He's doing better. Tommy said they're coming in now."

"Good." Dean nodded, and from that moment forward until his brother walked through it, his attention was devoted to watching the door.

Arla could immediately tell how much of a struggle it had been for Sam to get back into the building. His expression was carefully schooled, but the anxiety showed through despite his efforts. In all honesty, Arla thought he looked worse than when he'd left.

He shot a quick glance in their direction, then headed straight for the couch.

Dean said, "You shoud've just stayed out there. Arla's got our gear at their place. Why don't you just go and -"

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam interrupted.

Dean rolled his eyes and asked, "Why not? There's no reason for you to sit here."

Sam shot him a glare and sank further into the pillows in obvious defiance of his brother's order.

Dean looked like he was ready to explode from frustration, but instead of continuing the argument like Arla had expected, he turned to her and said, "You two don't need to sit around here any longer. We're fine."

Arla wasn't surprised, but she didn't like it. Tommy spoke up before she could, "I can leave you boys my phone. Give us a holler if you need anything."

"Thanks." Dean nodded, accepting the phone from Tommy. His attention returned to his brother and Arla knew there was nothing else for her to say.

Arla followed Tommy out the door, and, once again, headed for the elevators. It felt wrong leaving the boys in that room when it was obvious that neither one of them was doing well at all. She'd hoped that spending a bit of time outside would have done Sam more good than it seemed to have. She tugged on Tommy's arm as they neared the elevators and pulled him aside before he could hit the button.

"Tommy, stop. Just stop for a minute, will you?"

"Sorry. What's up?"

She shot him a glare. "Why are you in such a hurry to leave?"

"I'm not really-"

"Yes, you are. You barely walk in the door and you're walking out again."

Tommy rubbed her arm and said, "They need some time on their own."

Arla sighed, relenting a little. "What happened out there?"

"Not a lot. Sam struggled with some things, but he did eat and he handled everything well, all things considered."

"Stop stalling! What happened? Tell me everything."

"We sat down outside and I grabbed a bunch of different stuff to try to get him to eat. I told you he ate something."

"Yes, but how'd you get him to eat? He hasn't wanted to touch anything."

Tommy shrugged. "I just set it down in front of him and started eating and then he started to eat. He didn't eat much, but it was a start."  
"Did he talk to you about what's been going on?"

"No. We didn't talk about any of that. He needed to get away from all of that for awhile. Arla, he's very anxious and on edge right now. I didn't want to talk about anything that would make it worse," Tommy explained, voice somber. "He needs to know that normal still exists and that everything he's been going through doesn't define him; isn't who he is."

Arla studied him in awed silence for a long moment, then asked with a smile."How did you get so smart?"

"Years of experience with boys going through the same hell as he is right now." Tommy smiled ruefully.

Arla glanced back the way they'd come, then asked, "You're talking about PTSD, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Her heart ached as she considered the ramifications of what he'd said. She'd suspected as much, but knowing that Tommy saw the same signs as she did, somehow didn't make her feel any better.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Arla looked back up at him, completely at a loss.

Tommy squeezed her hand and said, "We're supposed to look out for them. Like we did all those years ago. They don't seem to have anyone else watching out for them or helping them so we're going to do it and we're going to get them well."

* * *

As the Penders walked out the door, Dean started feeling antsy and jittery. Like he was waiting for something terrible to happen. _Which it probably is,_ he mused unhappily. And if he felt antsy and jittery, it was obvious that Sam felt twenty times worse. The trial of just getting back in the door had taken its toll. If his colorless face and shaking hands hadn't been enough, the strained look on Tommy's face told Dean exactly how bad it had been. Now that he'd dismissed the Penders, Dean was out of his element.

Again.

He looked at Sam and wanted to jump out of his own skin. It didn't look like he was alone in feeling that way either, judging from the way Sam was vibrating where he sat and all but wringing his hands. It made Dean sick to see it because Sam should never look that way. And Dean had seen him looking like this all too often lately.

Beaten down. Defeated. Terrified.

Mentally unstable.

Dean hated it. Wanted to punch a wall. Fists cramping at his sides, Dean licked his dry lips and said, "Sam."

Sam's head snapped up at the sound of his voice which was a good sign.

"What?" Sam asked, voice shaky and unsteady.

"Uh-" Dean floundered. He didn't know what he was supposed to say now.

"Dean?"

"Huh?"

Sam seemed one second away from either vibrating right off the couch or else passing out and _then_ vibrating off the couch. Neither option was something Dean wanted to see. But, vibrating or not, Sam gathered his wits before Dean could and muttered weakly, "You said something first."

Dean swallowed hard, grimacing at the pain in his throat. He grabbed a sip of water, then said, "Are you...uh...Sam, I...I don't know man. Maybe you-"

"Dean stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop worrying about me."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid. Stop worrying about you? Not likely."

Sam leaned forward and put his hands over his face.

"Sam?" A spike of fear stabbed through his heart and Dean knew he was right then proving his own point. It was impossible for him not to worry.

"Just stop."

"What do you want me to do here?" The worry was quickly transitioning to his typical mix of anger and fear that he always felt to some degree when situations spiraled out of his control. "What do you want me to do?"

Sam didn't answer.

"You're sitting there looking like you're gonna...I don't know...pass out or have a seizure." His voice was low and thick, and every bit as unsteady as Sam's voice had been. "You are not getting better."

Sam pushed himself up a few inches, apparently trying to prove what he said next, "I'm fine."

Dean snorted. But he didn't say anything. He couldn't think straight. He didn't know what to say or how to help his brother. Sam straightened up a bit more, his expression haunted and his voice faint as he completely contradicted what he'd just said three seconds ago.

"Dean, I don't think I can stay here."

Frowning, Dean felt his stomach flip. Pulling himself together because one of them needed to be together, he said, "Ok. If you need to go, go. Look, I'll call Arla-"

Sam shook his head and stared at the floor, but Dean knew without a doubt that he needed to be out of the hospital. Soon. So he picked up the cell phone Tommy had left him and said, "You just said you can't stay here. It's ok. It's not a big deal. Do you want me to call them?"

"Yes."

Dean's throat tightened at the instant acquiescence, but he nodded and opened the phone and dialed even though it was killing him to do it. Calling Arla meant that he was failing. He was failing his brother. Because he wasn't fixing this. Wasn't making this better, easier for Sam. The phone rang only once before he heard Arla's voice.

"Dean?"

"Hey." Dean found it difficult to pull his attention from his brother to Arla.

"Dean, what's wrong?"

"Uh, is there any chance you could come back? Sam...he needs to get outta here." Dean broke off and stared at Sam. It felt like a betrayal, telling Arla that Sam was doing bad enough that he needed to leave.

"Certainly; we haven't even left the building yet. We'll be right back up."

"Thanks." He closed the phone and again looked over at Sam. "They'll be up in a couple minutes."

Sam looked up at him and Dean could barely hear him when he whispered, "I'm sorry."

There were so many possible reasons for that statement that Dean was at a complete loss. Instead of assuming, he just asked, "For what?"

"For leaving you here."

Dean sighed, even as the fury pulsed through him at the memory of the way _he'd_ left Sam alone, defenseless, and ready to die in that mental hospital. "You're not leaving me here."

Sam shot him a look that told Dean exactly how stupid he thought he was.

Rolling his eyes, Dean said, "Alright. So you're leaving me here. Fine. But you don't have to be sorry about it. You've got a lot on your plate right now. And I don't need you sitting there for hours. Go with Arla and do me a favor, ok? Get some rest. And I can try to do that thing you want me to do. Stop worrying about you."

Dean waited, but Sam didn't respond. He didn't look like the thought of getting out of the hospital was making him feel any better. He looked more like he was going to pass out than he had even a few minutes ago. Dean thought about the medications that Arla had mentioned. From the looks of him, Sam needed the meds.

Dean licked his lips again, then reached for the cup of water. Taking another slow drink helped ease the pain in his throat while also giving him time to think. Mentioning the meds to his brother would be asking for trouble, but he didn't care at this point. He wasn't going to let Sam suffer even if his stupid brother seemed to think he deserved to.

So Dean steeled himself and risked it all by saying, "I want you to promise me something else."

Sam rubbed his fingers over his eyes and said, "What're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you not being a stupid stubborn idiot. I'm talking about you taking some of those pills that the doctor wanted you to take-"

"No."

"Just listen to me, will ya? Take the pills so you can get some sleep and stop freaking out about everything and to help deal with that splitting headache that you won't admit to."

"Dean-"

"Take them. There's no reason not to-"

"I'm not taking them."

"Why are you being so freakin' stubborn about this?" Dean snapped.

Instead of answering, Sam got to his feet with no small degree of difficulty. Dean knew he'd pushed all the wrong buttons and found himself more than a little terrified that this time he'd pushed Sam past his breaking point given his current state of mind.

Sam looked at him and Dean found it difficult to believe the haggard, pale form in front of him was his little brother. He looked like someone who had been chronically ill for years. Despite appearances, his tone was firm when he said, "I'm not taking the pills."

"What's the big deal?" Irritation quickly overcoming his worries, Dean lifted his hands in question and asked, "Come on, talk to me. Why are you throwing such a fit about this?"

"Because I don't think what we need right now is for me to get addicted to anything _else_!"

Dean felt like Sam had punched him in the face. Again. For the eternity of a split second, they stared at each other and Dean couldn't breathe. It was the strangled breath Sam took a moment later that broke the spell. Dean followed his gaze and saw Arla and Tommy standing in the doorway. Their expressions gave nothing away. Even so, Dean felt sick that they were standing there; that they'd heard what Sam had said.

Looking back at his brother, Dean was afraid he was going to pass out right then in front of them all. His skin looked grey and he was wavering where he stood, but, surprisingly, Sam was the first one to speak.

"Dean. I'm gonna go now. I'll call you later, ok?"

Nodding, Dean couldn't force a single word past the knot in his throat. Sam studied him for a moment longer, then stumbled to the door. Tommy stepped back and Sam brushed past him into the hall and was gone. Arla watched Sam go, then stepped into the room while Tommy followed Sam.

"Dean?"

He nodded, trying to sort himself out enough to answer her.

"Are you alright?"

Nodding again, he knew she wasn't buying his lies, but then, neither was he.

Arla came closer until she stood next to the bed. Her gaze was intense as she asked, "Are you ok with this?"

"Am _I_ ok with this? I'm a little more concerned with whether _Sam's_ ok with this."

"He already walked out the door so I think he's ok with it to a certain degree anyway. The more important question is whether you're ok with it."

"What difference does that make?" Dean shook his head, wondering what he was missing.

She smiled, but it was a sad smile. Arla said, "It makes a difference because you're the one who is going to be sitting here worrying yourself sick about him."

 _Huh. She's got a point._ Dean couldn't deny it. Because he was _already_ worrying himself sick. So instead of denying it, he just said, "I trust you and Tommy to look out for him. But you need to trust me when I say that you better call me if anything happens. Anything. I need to hear from you and I need to hear from him later tonight."

"Deal. Keep Tommy's phone here with you and as soon as Sam's phone finishes charging, he'll be able to call you whenever he wants."

"Yeah, well, thing is he may not want to," Dean muttered. "So you need to make him call me tonight if he doesn't do it himself. I don't care how you make it happen, just do it. Call me yourself and then hand him the phone. Whatever it takes."

"I will, Dean." Arla nodded, "Now promise me that you'll take it easy yourself and get some rest this afternoon and tonight."

"Sure." He didn't even bother trying to make it sound like the truth.

* * *

Arla walked out of the room and felt like she'd made a bad choice. Somewhere. She wasn't sure where exactly, but she couldn't deny that the situation seemed out of control. The Winchesters had been a challenge to win over the first time she'd met them, but this time felt much worse. Even if Dean was, more or less, accepting the help, it was obvious he didn't _want_ to. He was doing it because he had no other choice.

She saw Tommy and Sam waiting by the elevators. Opening her mouth to say something, Arla stopped at Tommy's warning look and subtle shake of his head. She had no idea what might have transpired before she'd arrived, but she knew better than not to trust Tommy. So they all stood there waiting in silence.

And then they all walked through the hospital in silence. And out the front door. And to the car. Arla wanted to say something but everytime she so much as started thinking about opening her mouth, Tommy shot her another warning look. _It's like he can read my mind_.

Sam didn't look like the silence was bothering him. In fact, she had the feeling that he didn't want to be anywhere near them. The only reason he was going with them in the first place was because he couldn't handle the hospital even for another second. Which broke her heart.

She didn't know how to help him this time.

When they reached the car, Tommy headed for the driver's seat and Arla hurried to the back door before Sam could even think about getting in the back seat. She hopped in the car, feeling a little bad about not saying anything to him. He automatically opened the front door and got in. She knew that he would be a lot more comfortable in the front seat than the cramped back seat and judging by his expression, she knew he was already feeling sick to his stomach.

Tommy started the engine and Arla crossed her fingers that this was going to go well.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Hope the chapter made up for the long wait. Have a wonderful day!**


	19. Ch19: Bring you home

_**Chapter 19: Bring you home**_

The silence on the ride from the hospital wasn't what Sam would have called comfortable. He considered asking Tommy to turn on the radio, but couldn't force himself to speak. For one thing, being in a car only aggravated the nausea. For another, it felt safer to remain quiet. He didn't have to engage in conversation or answer questions that way. If no one talked, then no one was asking him how he felt or what he needed or what happened to him. All questions that he did not want to answer. At all. _Ever_.

So the silence continued until they reached the house. Tommy parked the car in front of the garage and Sam knew it was time to face reality. No one had forced him to leave the hospital; _he'd_ been the one having a meltdown. Now he had to deal with the repercussions. Pushing the car door open, Sam held onto it for a moment until he regained his balance.

He felt the fresh, cool breeze that spoke of nearby water. The sun was peeking out from the overcast sky, and it felt like a thousand years since the rainstorm of yesterday. The memories were fuzzy, as usual, but at least this time he remembered they were _real_ and not hallucinations.

Even so, thinking back on everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours didn't do much to calm his nerves.

"Sam?"

Realizing he'd been staring off into the distance, he turned at the sound of Arla's voice. She stood a few feet ahead of him while Tommy was beyond her, unlocking the front door. It was obvious that she didn't know what to do or say. He wasn't entirely certain either and, again, he regretted leaving the hospital. Of course, if Dean had intended to make a break for it, he would have already done so and they would have been a hundred miles away by now. So, although it was unlikely Dean would try to leave, it still worried him to leave his brother there; unarmed and alone.

"Sam?" Arla's voice was closer and more concerned, drawing his attention back to the present.

"Sorry," he said, closing the car door and walking toward her.

"Come inside?" She smiled, but didn't come closer.

Sam nodded and forced a quick smile. He followed her to the door and into the house. It was spacious and bright; normal and peaceful. It was an illusion. At least for him it was. Because he and Dean would never have anything like this for themselves. They had once, but even Dean barely had memories of that time before evil had snatched everything good from them one fateful night.

"All of your things are upstairs," Arla said, pointing to a staircase off to his left. "We didn't know whose bag was whose, so we just left it all in the one room."

"That's fine, thanks."

"There are two bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom," Arla continued, "towels in the cupboard, and help yourself to anything you need."

Sam kept his gaze on the staircase, wanting nothing more than to run up it right now and get away from her. He was torn between gratitude and guilt. Leaving Dean in the hospital had been so difficult that he still wasn't sure how he'd managed to get out the door in the first place. And, as grateful as he was for everything the Penders had been doing for them, he couldn't let go of the worry that came along with allowing anyone this close. It wasn't safe; for any of them.

He heard Arla saying something about food and he forced himself to focus on the present again. Turning to her, Sam said, "I think I'm just going to take a shower."

"Ok."

Sam didn't give her the chance to say anything else. He headed up the stairs without another word and didn't look back. Getting up the stairs left him breathless and dizzy and shocked at how out of shape he was. Leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs, he paused. It took a few seconds before he felt steady enough to move.

To his right was the bathroom, straight ahead was a bedroom, and there was one to his left as well. He caught sight of their gear in the bedroom to his left so Sam headed that direction. Their gear was stacked neatly just inside the door and he saw both of their cell phones, plugged in and charging, sitting on a small desk to the right. He stared at the phones and wished he'd thought to ask Arla what Tommy's cell phone number was so he could call Dean right now and make sure he was doing ok.

Picking up his phone, Sam's heart jumped when he saw there was a text message from an unfamiliar number. Opening the text, Sam smiled when he saw the message was from Dean.

 _It's me. Your brother. You ok?_

Sam replied, _Fine. You?_

Waiting for a reply, Sam reached for his gear and started looking for some clean, or at least relatively clean, clothes. By the time he'd dug out a shirt, another text from Dean popped up on the screen.

 _We need to talk about this._

Sam didn't need clarification for what his brother was talking about. His hands shook as he wrote back, _No we don't._

Dean didn't reply immediately which meant he was typing out a long response that Sam knew he didn't want to read. Dropping the phone on the desk, he dug through his gear again until he found a pair of jeans. Still no new message on the phone. Sam started hunting for his toothbrush then paused when his fingers touched the pages of a notebook. Frowning, he pulled the notebook out and looked at it curiously. He didn't remember the notebook and, opening it up and staring at the pages within, he wasn't sure what he was seeing at first.

When the words finally came into focus, memories slammed into him and sent him to his knees. Lightheaded, he smoothed his hand over the page and read the messy writing that slid up and down over the page like he'd been writing while on a ship in high seas rather than sitting in an ugly motel room. There were entire sections that flip-flopped between English and Enochian. A full body chill swept over him as he read the Enochian parts. It terrified him that he could read those sections. And what those sections said terrified him even more.

He didn't want to read them, but he couldn't stop himself from doing so.

By the time he'd finished reading the page in its entirety, he was having a hard time seeing past the tears. Scrubbing at his eyes, he crumpled all the loose pages into balls and shoved them down to the very bottom of his backpack. He wanted to burn them, actually thought about finding some matches and doing it right then and there.

He leaned forward, head pressed against the edge of the desk as he remembered the Penders had gone to the cabin and gathered their gear. The nightmarish thought that maybe, _maybe_ they'd found the notebook made his chest hurt and his head spin. If they knew, if they'd read it...Sam shook his head. No, if they'd found what he'd written they never would have brought him to their place.

Opening his eyes, he stared at the carpet and tried to get his shuddering breaths under control. _They didn't see it,_ he told himself over and over. Zipping the backpack up, he pushed himself back to his feet. A light was flashing on his phone and he knew Dean had texted him back. He wanted to ignore it, to go take his shower and avoid Dean, but he couldn't. Because if he didn't answer, Dean would probably drag himself out of bed and walk all the way to the Penders' cabin and Sam couldn't let that happen.

So he picked up the phone with shaking hands and held his breath.

 _We don't have to talk if you don't want to. But I need to know that you're dealing with it. I don't care how you deal, but you gotta deal._

Sam swallowed hard. Deal with it? How was he supposed to deal with it? At this point, he wasn't even sure what _it_ was. And it wasn't comforting not to know; it scared him, because it just meant that there was so much he needed to deal with that he didn't even have a starting place.

Another text came in before Sam had responded to the first one.

 _You still there?_

Sam began typing out a reply, but instead, without even making a conscious decision, he hit call and the phone was ringing.

"Sam?" Dean picked up immediately and sounded no less surprised by the call than he himself was. "You doin' ok?"

It took all his concentration and then some to form words. Holding the phone to his ear, Sam settled back down against the desk and said, "I'm here."

"How're you doing? And don't lie to me."

How was he doing? Sam didn't know how to answer that as a lie let alone as the truth. He thought about the crumpled papers in the bottom of his backpack and the urge to tell Dean everything felt almost too strong to resist. But then he thought about what Dean had been dealing with this year. He thought about the way Dean had been drinking; the self-destructive path he'd been on ever since Cas had gone off the rails. The way he seemed even more reckless and angry than he had after Dad had died. Sam knew most of it was his fault and couldn't bring himself to say anything.

"Sam?" Dean's tone sounded like a plea.

"I'm here," Sam repeated because the lump in his throat was too large for him to work any other words around.

Dean sighed heavily and said, "You said that."

Silence fell again and Sam couldn't come up with a single thing to say to break it. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the desk. The exhaustion pressed down on him and he knew he could fall asleep right where he sat. It didn't sound like a bad idea, in fact. Then Dean spoke up again and Sam remembered they'd been in the middle of a conversation. It seemed like it had been going on forever.

"I should have been there for you." Dean's words were barely audible, but his regret came through loud and clear.

"You've always been there for me," Sam said, and for once, his words came out strong and clear.

Dean sighed again, then sneezed. When he spoke, his voice sounded chewed up and raw. "I'm not there for you now, am I?"

"You don't need to be here right now. Right now, you need to be where you are and you need to get better so we can get back on the road." Sam waited, but Dean didn't respond. After a minute, Sam went on, "Look, man, I'm going to take a shower. You might as well get some rest."

For a split second, Sam thought that Dean was going to let him off the hook. Then the second passed and Dean said, "Why did you call me?"

Again, the words refused to move past the lump in his throat.

"Are you ok with being there, Sam? You want me to come pick you up?"

Tears burned as he thought about the promise that Dean's question was. All he had to do was say yes and Dean would bust himself out of the hospital, steal a car and pick him up; no questions asked, no answers demanded. And he wanted to say yes so badly that it gave him chest pains. He didn't want to be here. The hospital had been too much, far too much, but this wasn't turning out to be any better.

"Because I will," Dean continued, still sounding tired, but somehow stronger now. "I can be there in less than an hour."

"No." Sam shook his head, even if Dean couldn't see it. "You need the meds and the rest."

"Like you don't."

Sam felt his stomach twist and he prayed that Dean wasn't going to bring up the pills again. There was no way he could deal with that subject right now.

Dean didn't bring the pills up. He said, "Go take your shower. And then you should eat something. And take a nap. And call me later."

"Yeah. Ok," Sam mumbled, grateful that Dean was letting him off the hook.

"Ok." Dean sounded far from happy. "Look, the nurse is here for another blood letting so I'm gonna have to go anyway."

"Be nice, Dean." Sam almost smiled picturing how an assessment by a male nurse was going to go over with his brother.

"I'm always nice."

Sam stared at the phone for a few seconds after Dean hung up on him. Standing up left him lightheaded again and it took three tries before he got the phone back on the charger. At least some of the anxiety had died down after talking with Dean. Maybe a shower would help clear his mind.

He knew he was on borrowed time anyway. Arla had let him go without a fight although he knew she wanted to feed him and help in in whatever way possible. Once he was finished in the shower, he knew she would be poised to attack; probably armed with cookies and bottles of water and anything else she could think of that might help.

If he could get himself under control before then and box everything up neatly and shove it in the back of his mind, maybe he could handle it when he had to face Tommy and Arla again.

Maybe.

* * *

Seeing Matt walk into the room had been the crowning moment of a truly awful day.

Dean finished his conversation with Sam more abruptly than he would have preferred and glared at the nurse. He listened without paying any attention to what Matt was saying. He let the guy do his assessment and check over the IV fluids and antibiotics. He refused the painkillers, but took the rest of the pills that Matt said he was due to take.

Anything to get rid of him. Anything to be left alone so he could focus on what the hell he was supposed to do about Sam. Watching him walk out the door earlier had not been a good experience, even if knowing Sam was safe with Tommy and Arla did help ease a degree of his worry. The fact that Sam hadn't looked as relieved as he should have when he left put a damper on it. And the brief conversation he'd had with Sam just now brought all of the worry back in spades.

Sam hadn't even tried to pretend he was ok. Hadn't said _I'm fine_ or any other similar lie. And he'd called rather than continuing to hide behind the ease of a text message which also worried Dean. And had him doubting whether he should have gone along so easily with Sam's desperate need to get out of the hospital.

Dean zoned back in when he realized Matt had said something and was expecting a response this time. He blinked at the guy and asked, "What?"

"I asked if there was anything you needed."

"No."

Matt stared at him a little longer, then said, "I think I kind of get what you're going through."

Dean gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. He was ready for a fight. The guy had no idea what he was going through.

"I know you're worried about your brother."

"You don't know anything," Dean snapped, "so just get out of here."

Matt held up a hand. "I don't mean to offend you, Dean. I've got two kid sisters. I know how difficult it is when they're sick. Especially when you can't be there to help."

Dean nodded once, not willing to give more acknowledgement than that.

"It's a long time till anything good comes on TV." Matt waved a thumb over his shoulder at the TV, then pulled a paperback out of one of his pockets. He dropped it on the overbed table and said, "Might help pass the time until primetime."

And then he walked out without another word.

Staring down at the book, Dean saw it was a crime thriller. He wasn't interested in it, but decided it would be better than watching soap operas or cooking shows all afternoon. Pulling the book closer, Dean flipped it over and read the synopsis before sneezing. A few more sneezes followed the first and he knew the heaviness and dullness in his head wasn't because of exhaustion or the ulcer that had landed him here in the first place.

He was sick.

And a cold would have been something he would easily have ignored a few weeks ago. Push through like always and be fine in a few days. They'd both learned very young that anything from a cold to a mild case of the flu was something you simply dealt with and didn't complain about.

Right now, though, he felt like complaining to anyone who would listen because this sucked. It sucked to have a freakin' ulcer and it sucked that he didn't have anything to drink when his hands were shaking and his nerves were shot. It sucked to come down with a cold on top of everything else.

It _all_ sucked and he was having a hard time staying on top of the growing pile of crap their lives had become.

Dean took a thoroughly unsatisfying sip of water that did nothing for his nerves but soothed the burn in his throat a little. He picked up the book and opened it to the first page just as the phone rang. Heart thudding, he almost knocked the phone off the edge of the table in his haste to get to it. The thought that Sam was calling him back already terrified him.

But when he glanced at the phone, the terror settled a bit and, instead, he found himself unexpectedly laughing. Because it wasn't Sam calling him back. The name on the caller ID was _Hot Mama_.

Dean answered the call and said, "Arla?"

"Hi Dean, everything's fine," she said instantly, knowing what he was worrying about before he'd had the chance to say anything.

"I know. He already called me."

"Oh? Is he ok?"

Dean smiled. She was asking him that when _she_ was in the house with Sam and he wasn't. "He's not great, but I think he's hanging on. He was gonna take a shower."

"I'm glad he called you," Arla sounded relieved. "Are you doing alright so far?"

"Peachy."

"Dean, it's ok to not be ok right now."

Dean bristled this time and found himself snapping at her as much as he didn't want to, "I'm fine and I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity. It's called support. I'm not doing this out of pity. I'm doing this because I'm your friend. I want to be here for you boys; we both do. All I ask is that you allow us to help. Please?"

He stared at the wall for a long time, then said, "I'm trying."

"I know you are."

"Thanks for calling. Look, just...just keep an eye on him, will you? I'm not sure exactly what's going on with him, but he is not ok."

"I will. Try to focus on resting, Dean. We're going to keep an eye on Sam for you and I promise I'll call you if he needs you; whether he says so or not. Ok?"

"Ok," Dean said, closing his eyes and trying to envision himself resting. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Arla said. "Call me anytime."

"Ok." He didn't say good bye; just hung the phone up before she could say anything else.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate everything she was doing for them. It was that he couldn't take another minute of talking. Too much threatened to bubble up if he kept talking. All the things he was holding so close to himself. Things he didn't dare allow to be spoken aloud.

Setting the phone on the table with shaking hands, Dean stared at it. He found himself hoping that Sam would call him back. Checking the time, Dean tried to gauge the approximate time it would take Sam to shower and get back to the phone. He'd give him thirty minutes. Even though he hadn't told Sam that he needed to call back right away, he needed Sam to do just that.

Dean stared at the phone for a long time before deciding that he wasn't going to manage to relax if he was staring at the phone and worrying himself sick about whether or not Sam was going to survive being on his own. Leaving him alone like this was killing Dean. After everything he'd gone through, and they still hadn't even managed to touch the surface of all of that, the last thing Sam needed was to be left to his own devices. Dean could only hope that Arla would keep a close eye on him like she'd promised.

It may have been Sam's anxiety that had him leaving the hospital, but right now, Dean was loathe to admit it, but he was the one bordering on a nervous breakdown. He opened the book again and started reading. For the first two pages, he found it difficult to focus. His attention skipped and circled and always spiraled back to Sam. By the time he got to the third page, his thoughts turned to Cas and it wasn't really an improvement.

Thinking about Sam made him angry.

Thinking about Cas made him angrier.

Thinking about almost everything right now made him angry so he tried harder to focus his attention on the book instead. It didn't happen right away, but after a chapter or two, he lost himself in the story.

* * *

Sam woke up without any memory of falling asleep. It was as if he'd been drugged or bashed in the head because he couldn't sort out a single clear thought. Couldn't remember where he was or why he was...wherever he was. For awhile he just lay there. Comfortable under the heavy weight of sleep, he was content to remain where he was and not think too much about anything.

He kept his eyes closed but sound began to filter into the dark warmth around him. Music. Another minute of focusing and he recognized the song. _Ramble On._ The song went off and a voice began talking, announcing the winner of a radio station giveaway. Sam wondered what time it was and why he'd slept past the alarm and why Dean wasn't giving him a hard time about it already.

Getting his eyes open took a few more seconds, and then he was staring at an unfamiliar wall in a darkened room. He didn't want to move. His limbs felt leaden and he couldn't remember when he'd last felt so comfortable. It had been a long time; that much he knew. Memory filtered back in like the shards of sunlight around the edges of the blinds.

After his shower, he'd returned to the bedroom. Clean, dressed and shaven, he'd been ready to face the Penders. A check of his phone showed that Dean hadn't called or texted him since their earlier conversation. Sam had taken the phone off the charger and sat on the edge of the bed staring at it for a long time. He'd had to turn the radio on while he sat there when the silence got to be too much to handle. By the time he'd convinced himself not to bother Dean, he wasn't feeling good any more and he'd decided to lay down for a few minutes.

The clock showed that it had been much more than a few minutes. He'd been sleeping for hours. He couldn't believe he'd managed to sleep that long without a nightmare. Rubbing his eyes, he found that he still had his phone in one hand. He rolled onto his side and checked for messages from Dean. There were two. One was from twenty minutes ago and the other from five minutes ago.

 _Still napping?_

 _Let me know when you're up._

Sam frowned, then realized Arla must have been in at some point if Dean knew he'd fallen asleep. She must have pulled the comforter over him too because when he'd lain down he'd fallen asleep so quickly that he hadn't had time to bother. Glancing at the door, he saw that it was half closed and he knew he hadn't left it that way or closed the curtains. Scrubbing at his eyes again, Sam tried to wake up all the way. It was almost seven in the evening.

He was hungry.

Knowing that news would make everyone happy didn't exactly thrill him. He was hungry, yes, but the last thing he needed was for it to become a cause for celebration. He wanted to be left alone. Mood souring the more he woke up, Sam wished he could pull the covers over his head and go back to sleep. But now that he was fully awake and remembering everything, the cozy, warm bed began to feel constrictive and suffocating.

Shoving the covers off, he sat up and sucked in a few breaths. In the space of a few seconds he'd gone from being comfortable and rested to back on the verge of complete terror. The room was too dark and too quiet even though the radio was playing Metallica. Sam crossed the room and flipped the light switch, then had to brace himself against the wall as the headrush from his haste left him swaying.

Once he was steadier, he stumbled back to the bed and picked up the phone again. His fingers were shaking so badly that he hit send before he'd finished the message so what Dean got was _I'm awa._ Sam snorted, knowing Dean was going to give him grief over that text. He waited for him to text, but Dean called instead and Sam wasn't mentally prepared for that. He stared at the call knowing he should answer. But he didn't want to talk to Dean. Didn't want to talk to anyone. The call ended and a text came in right after.

 _Answer the damned phone._

Sam glared at the text, annoyed at being bossed around as usual. But he still answered the damned phone when Dean called back a split second later.

"Sam?"

"What?"

"Geeze, you get up on the wrong side of the bed?" Dean muttered, sounding congested.

Sam lowered his head to rest in his free hand. The headache that had dissipated somewhat was regaining strength now that he was sitting up. Dealing with Dean in his current mood wasn't helping anything.

"Sam? Are you awake?"

He should answer him. Sam knew he should, but answering that question would lead to other questions. Like how was he doing and how did he sleep and had he eaten anything and was he having a panic attack.

"Sam? Come on, talk to me. You're just sitting there breathing at me." Dean was trying his best to sound annoyed. "That's not a conversation, dude. At least not one I want to be having with you. Now, a smokin' hot brunette on the other hand, I could probably-"

"Finish that sentence and I will hang up."

Dean was amused enough to laugh. "At least it got you talking again."

Sam squeezed his eyes closed and asked, "Are you ok?"

"Swell. I'm just sittin' here watchin' really crappy television and eating even crappier food." Dean sounded ok. Sounded better. Sounded more like himself. He sneezed, then went on, "What about you? Arla said she went to check on you and you were sound asleep."

"Yeah."

"Are you gonna be able to sleep tonight?" Dean asked, and from the way he asked it Sam knew that Dean knew it was a loaded question.

Since the answer was most likely _no_ and they both knew it, Sam didn't bother to answer.

Dean kept talking like he hadn't just asked a question that Sam hadn't answered. "So I got this book you should read."

"Where'd you get a book?" Sam mumbled, trying to engage in conversation like Dean obviously wanted while trying to ignore the memory of the devil sitting on the desk in the hospital room, reading through some big medical textbook.

"Matt gave it to me. Crime thriller. You'd be done with it in a couple hours. I'm 'bout halfway."

Sam rubbed his forehead. "Why are we talking about this?"

"Because you won't talk about anything," Dean snapped. "So I'm talking about this."

Since he hadn't wanted to start a conversation in the first place, Sam kept his mouth shut.

"Have you eaten anything?"

"No." Sam swallowed hard and concentrated on saying what he knew Dean wanted to hear. "I was going downstairs when you called."

"So go eat something."

Sam straightened and stared at the wall. He _had_ been hungry, but right now, the thought of food was turning his stomach again and ratcheting up the headache.

"Just grab a sandwich and some water," Dean continued, "Arla'll understand. You don't have to sit down there and talk to them if you don't want to. You know that, right? They just want to help."

"I know."

Dean sighed and Sam could tell he wasn't sure what to say. Sam wasn't sure either, but the words were coming out of his mouth before he could help it, "Dean, I-"

"So help me," Dean cut him off, "the next thing outta your mouth better not be sorry."

It _had_ been what he was going to say, but Sam amended it quickly and said instead, "I guess I'll go...get something to eat."

"Good idea." Dean sneezed, then cursed. He said, "It's just for tonight, ok? I'll be out by lunch tomorrow and we can get out of here."

"Sounds good," Sam whispered, squeezing his eyes closed. Tomorrow sounded like a long time to wait.

Silence fell for a minute, and this time the hesitation was on Dean's part. He sounded tired when he said, "If you need...to talk or...whatever you need. Call me, ok?"

Sam felt the burn of tears, but made sure his voice betrayed nothing as he said, "Sure. I'm fine. Just gonna eat and then go to bed. Concentrate on yourself, would ya? Don't be stupid. Do whatever you're supposed to do to get better, ok?"

He purposefully didn't say _because I need you to get better,_ but Sam was pretty sure Dean had heard it anyway.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean's reply was snarky, but thick, and Sam realized he wasn't the only one fighting to hide how he was truly feeling. "I'm gonna check with Arla to make sure you ate your veggies."

"Whatever." Sam was grateful that Dean could still joke around like the world hadn't completely fallen apart around them. "See you tomorrow."

"See ya."

Sam lowered the phone and sighed. It was time to face the music. And the Penders.

 _Just grab a sandwich and some water._ Easy. Nothing to it.

Pushing himself to his feet, Sam decided he'd rather face a Leviathan.

* * *

Talking to his brother hadn't exactly made Dean _less_ worried about him. The relief he'd felt a few hours earlier when Arla had texted him that Sam had fallen asleep fizzled into nothingness now. Grimacing, he pressed a hand to his chest when a vicious bout of sneezing left him seeing stars and feeling like he'd been stabbed through the chest. Refusing the painkillers earlier now seemed like a poor life choice.

"What else's new?" He muttered, opening the book up again.

Dean dropped it a second later because any focus he'd had was gone now. All he could focus on was all the ways he'd screwed everything up. And then he was distracted from that when his thoughts turned to Cas and he felt sicker. Even his anger and bitterness over the entire situation didn't stop him from hating himself for leaving Cas there with only a demon to watch over him. That wasn't something he would have ever considered-

Before.

Before Cas had gone off and decided he knew best and that he had a mission that was far too important to ever talk to them about. Before Cas had lied to them. Lied to _him_. Over and over. Cas had lied to them and then he had betrayed them in the worst way possible and shattered the wall in Sam's head.

Dean's hands cramped as they squeezed the arms of the chair. He released his grip and his hands shook so badly that he went back to gripping the chair just to be able to ignore the shaking. His mouth was dry and his stomach doing backflips.

He needed a drink. He couldn't remember when he'd last had a drink, but the fact was he needed one. Right now. Wiping a shaking hand across his mouth, Dean stared at the television and saw nothing. His ears were ringing and he could picture that bottle of Jack Daniel's in his bag. Closing his eyes, he could _taste_ it.

Pacing the room sounded like a great idea, but it had taken enough effort just to get himself back to the chair after he'd gone to the bathroom earlier. Thoughts returning to that bottle, Dean tried to distract himself by figuring out what he was going to do next.

That didn't go as planned because thinking about what he was going to do next involved picking Sam up, finishing off the whiskey and going...somewhere. Except he didn't know where to go. Rufus' cabin? Maybe. Hole up there till they got their feet under them?

"That could work," Dean said aloud, licking his lips and wondering if he could just check himself out now. Tonight.

Hit a liquor store on the way to pick Sam up?

"That could work," he repeated, feeling his pulse beating in his ears. The room seemed to

be tilting a bit to the left and he had to hold onto the chair again.

But that plan required him to be able to stand up straight. Walk. Find a cab or steal a car. Pick Sam up and be strong enough to deal with whatever Sam might be going through at that particular moment. None of which he felt up to doing. Thumping his head against the chair back, Dean stared at the ceiling and considered making his plan simpler.

"Check out," he whispered. "Cab, then liquor store. Then motel for the night."

That might actually work. Best of all worlds. He wouldn't be dragging Sam away from a safe, comfortable bed. He could get a drink and sleep it off and no one would have to know he hadn't spent the night in the hospital. He'd be fine in the morning and much better equipped to deal with his brother after having a few steadying doses of whiskey in his system.

The longer he thought about it, the more the plan appealed to him. Dean knew where his clothes were and he even had some cash in his wallet. The thought of drinking until he passed out and then sleeping through the night without having to listen to any screaming or nightmares or deal with fevers or any of the rest of the crap he'd been dealing with sounded almost too good to be true.

Sam was safe. Sam was going to get a good night's sleep.

Why shouldn't _he_ get a good night's sleep for once? Dean hated himself for thinking it, but he couldn't deny that his plan didn't already have him feeling better.

* * *

He'd done exactly what Dean had told him to do. He'd gone downstairs for a sandwich and a bottle of water. Arla had been pleased to see him and asked him how he was feeling after getting some rest. Sam had managed to smile and answer her questions appropriately. Tommy had joined them in the kitchen, eating muffins and making it all seem normal.

But it wasn't normal. Not at all. Sam forced himself to endure it until he could politely excuse himself. Thankfully, neither of the Penders questioned him or asked if he were ok. He'd thanked them and headed back upstairs.

The overhead light and the radio were on and he was sitting on the floor, sorting through their gear. He wasn't going to sleep so he figured he might as well do something productive to keep his mind too busy to think about all of the things he didn't want to think about.

Sam had pulled most of the dirty laundry out of their bags when his hand brushed against something cold in Dean's bag. Pulling it out, he stared at the bottle of Jack Daniel's. It wasn't full and Sam's heart sank. It wasn't like they didn't usually have a supply of whiskey with them. Wasn't like Dean couldn't drink if he wanted too. All the same, Sam knew it was different this time. Dean had crossed a line somewhere and Sam was pretty sure Dean knew it too.

Tucking the bottle back into the bag, Sam wished he knew how to get through to Dean.

"It's like Dad all over again," he whispered to the empty room.

Thinking about Dean's drinking habits sent renewed spikes of pain stabbing through his eyeballs. Sam leaned back against the bed and rested his elbows on his knees, massaging his temples uselessly. Nothing stopped the pain. He couldn't tell if it was getting worse or staying the same at this point. All he knew was that his head hurt.

He thought about the pills. Arla hadn't said anything about them, but he'd found them on the bathroom counter when he'd taken his shower and it had been all he could do not to flush them down the toilet right then and there. Even so, if he wasn't going to touch the prescription painkillers, a Tylenol wasn't going to kill him. Sam groaned and lowered his head. It was stupid but he couldn't help it. The thought of a pill, _any_ pill, brought back technicolor images of the hospital and the devil and everything that he was trying so hard to forget.

Sam sat there until his back hurt and getting up made his ribs scream in protest. Flopping down on the bed, he rolled to his side and stared at the clock. He'd been sitting on the floor for almost three hours. No wonder he felt stiff. Closing his eyes, Sam felt the heaviness of sleep begin to drag him down despite the light being on and the music on the radio being just a touch too loud.

When he woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, head throbbing, Sam searched the room frantically for the chains, the blood, the smiling face that haunted every moment of every day. His throat hurt and Sam backed up against the headboard, stupidly running his hands over his arms and chest, searching for the wounds that had left him screaming. But even though there weren't any wounds, he was dangerously close to passing out.

Reining in his breathing, Sam looked at the clock and saw that was just after midnight. He'd slept for less than an hour. The light was still on as was the radio and Sam stared at the door, half expecting someone to be pounding it down asking if he were alright. When a few minutes passed and he heard nothing, the tension started easing out of him.

Grabbing his phone, he saw that he didn't have any missed calls or texts. Rubbing his eyes, Sam dropped the phone back on the bed and hoped that meant Dean was sleeping. Knowing he wasn't going to be sleeping anytime soon, Sam swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there trying to figure out what he was going to do. Sweat ran down his back and he ran a hand over his face. He was too hot and the room looked too small and he couldn't breathe anymore.

"Take a walk," Sam whispered. "You're fine. Just need to walk it off."

Getting up, Sam reached for the bottle of water to take with him, but stopped before his fingers touched it. He tugged his shoes on and crossed the room. Pulling on a jacket, he leaned down and reached into Dean's bag.

It took two swallows of the whiskey before he could even get the door open. Another sip got him down the stairs. Another one got him out the back door and then he could finally breathe.

He didn't have a clue where he was going, but he felt better already.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	20. Ch 20: Ramblers in the wilderness

**Hi! Hope this wasn't too long of a wait. I know I left you (and the boys) on a bit of a cliffie there. Time to find out what they've been up to and if either one of them got into any more trouble... oh. and of course the biggest question of all...does Dean find his pants?! :D**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 20: Ramblers in the Wilderness**_

"Arla, he's an adult. If he wants to go outside, he can." Tommy squeezed her shoulder as she peered out the window. "Even if it's after midnight. He doesn't have a curfew."

The afternoon and evening had passed without issue, although he knew Arla had been worrying about both of the Winchesters. Late in the evening, after his impromptu nap, Sam had come downstairs on his own and been willing to eat something when Arla offered. He'd been quiet but polite and they'd all kept conversation to a minimum. Tommy considered it a good sign that he'd been willing to interact with them at all. At the time, he'd considered it meant Sam was doing better.

Now, awakened a bit after midnight by the sound of the back door opening and closing, he wasn't so sure.

"He is not in any state to be out there by himself." Arla let the curtain fall closed as she turned to look up at him, daring him to disagree.

Tommy leaned past her and pulled the curtain aside to take a peek for himself. The moonlight was distorted and broken by cloud cover, but he could see well enough to watch Sam stumble across the yard until he came to the Adirondack chairs they had arranged next to the fire pit down on the beach. Sam leaned against one of the chairs for a moment, and Tommy was about to suggest they just keep an eye on him and let him sit out there for as long as he needed. Then he caught the flare of moonlight reflecting off the bottle in Sam's hand.

A plastic bottle of water wouldn't look like that and Tommy knew without a doubt that Sam had found Dean's bottle of whiskey. He watched a moment longer as Sam took a generous drink then collapsed into the chair. Tommy allowed the curtain to fall closed again and turned to find Arla pulling on her bathrobe.

"What are you doing?" he asked as she pulled the bedroom door open.

"I'm going out there to check on him."

Tommy caught her arm and they stood in the doorway, half in and half out. The light from the alarm clock cast her face in an eerie red glow but clearly illuminated her worry. He gave her a quick kiss and said, "No, you aren't. I am."

Arla shot him a puzzled glance, then turned as he went back into the bedroom and flipped on the bedside lamp. Tommy started getting dressed as he said, "You, my dear, are going to keep the home fires burning as it were. Make yourself a cup of tea, have a midnight snack, get back to that book you've been meaning to finish."

"You must be joking." Arla snorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tommy zipped up his jeans and pulled a sweatshirt over his head. "I'm not joking. It's still a bit nippy out there at night and we're going to want a cup of hot tea when we come inside."

"What changed your mind?" Arla asked softly once he had his shoes on and was heading to the door.

He didn't want to add to her worry, but she needed to know so Tommy said, "He's out there drinking."

Arla's eyes widened and she followed him out into the kitchen. "You could see that?"

"I saw the bottle." Tommy nodded, flipping on the smaller of the two kitchen lights.

"They had alcohol in their gear?" Arla shook her head, already filling a tea pot with water. She rolled her eyes. "I should have thought of that. Exactly what is your plan?"

"Go out there and sit with him until he's ready to come back inside."

The water ran over the edge of the teakettle as Arla gaped at him. He grinned at her and she pressed her hand down on the faucet to turn the water off. Setting the kettle aside, she said, "That's a clever plan."

"No, it's a simple plan." Tommy kissed her cheek, walking to the hooks by the back door and pulling on his jacket. "Right now simple is what he needs."

"And what if he _simply_ ," Arla put finger quotes around the word, "needs to sit out there all night long and drink?"

Tommy held her gaze and said, "Then I'll sit out there all night long so he doesn't have to do it alone."

Arla studied him for a long moment, before relenting. With a sigh, she turned the stove on and settled the kettle on to warm. She joined him at the door and said, "Don't let him drink too much."

"I'll do what I can."

"Are you going to try to talk to him?"

"Only if he wants to talk."

"Ok." She gave him a hug, then patted him on the chest. "Go."

Tommy leaned down for another kiss, then let himself out the back door into the stillness of the night. The lake wasn't huge as far as lakes went, but it was huge compared to any lake he'd seen growing up in his rural Arizona hometown. Much as he loved the desert and beauty of his home state, this lake was one of his favorite places. There was something peaceful and calming about the water lapping against the sand. The gulls during the day, the crickets by night. The cool night breeze was invigorating and, even though he was tired and would have been quite happy to be tucked in his warm bed, the brisk air cleared his head.

Tommy didn't try to be quiet as he walked toward the beach. The last thing he wanted was to startle Sam. Thankfully, there was plenty of gravel mixed in with the grass back here and, in the silence of the night, his footsteps could easily be heard. He crossed the last few yards, then walked around the chair to Sam's left and took a quick, assessing glance before easing himself down onto the cold wood.

Sam didn't say anything, but he also didn't flinch. Tommy straightened his legs out in front of him and settled back in the other chair, hands folded across his chest. After a full minute, he spared another glance from the corner of his eye.

Completely opposite of his relaxed pose, Sam was sitting hunched in on himself, the bottle of whiskey braced on the arm of the chair. The soft tapping as the bottle vibrated against the wooden chair was the only sound outside of the waves and the crickets. When the tapping stopped, Tommy turned and watched Sam lift the bottle and take a long drink. As much as he hated to see the kid drinking, Tommy knew he had no business saying anything about it. Sam lowered the bottle, but kept it close to his chest this time.

Tommy wondered if Sam were afraid he was going to try to take it from him. Not that Sam had given any indication that he'd even noticed Tommy's presence so far. It was difficult to know if he were aware of anything beyond the liquor and whatever nightmare he was trying to drink away. Tilting his head back, Tommy looked up at the clouds and watched a stray star or two peek through. He thought about the notes he'd found in Sam's backpack and wasn't sure if he were glad he'd found them or if he wished he'd never seen them. But he _had_ seen them and he still had no idea how to broach the subject. Or even if he should.

"How long have you been a cop?" Sam's voice was soft, but even; controlled. He was staring down at the bottle in his hand.

Tommy glanced at him, surprised that he'd spoken and even more surprised at what he'd asked. _At least he's talking to me._ He said, "Over forty years now."

"Ever regret it?"

"All the time."

That brought Sam's head up quickly, although he avoided Tommy's gaze.

Tommy smiled and went on, "I regret that I haven't had more time. Forty years isn't such a long time in the grand scheme of things. When I think about how I played around after high school instead of going to college, or when I retired too young, I regret knowing the time I wasted when I could have spent it doing good."

Sam nodded, looking away. "Why'd you retire?"

"I almost died; couple of my buddies did." Tommy's thoughts turned back to the day of the shooting. Two brave and loyal men had died that day and the memory of their blood, their bodies, their broken-hearted families still ached. "Took a year for the physical injuries to heal fully. A lot longer to get my focus back. So I left for a few years. Needed to step away to get better. To let myself remember the reasons I had been willing to put that badge on in the first place."

"Because there's always something evil out there to fight," Sam muttered, then took another drink.

"No. Because I wanted to help people." Tommy shook his head, turning so he could look at Sam. "That's what the job is about. That's the whole reason right there. To help people. Sure, sometimes that means you have to stop a bank robbery. Sometimes it means you have to stop a bully from beating up on the little guy; or the other way around. Sometimes you have to arrest someone who's dealing drugs. But it's not about the drug busts, the crime scenes, the shootings or car chases like in all the movies. It's not even about the bad guys. At the end of the day, it's about helping people."

Sam stared at the arm of the chair and shook his head, "It isn't that simple."

"It _is_ that simple. It's only more complicated if you let it be," Tommy said, leaning forward, tipping his head down and trying to meet Sam's eyes. "You want to know why I rejoined the force?"

Dead silence.

Tommy went on anyway, "Because of you and your brother."

This time he got a reaction. Sam straightened slightly, leaning heavily against the arm of the chair, white-knuckling the bottle. He met Tommy's eyes for the first time and Tommy could see the despair that went soul deep reflecting in the moonlight. He'd seen that look in the eyes of buddies who'd had a case go wrong. He'd seen it in the mirror every single day for a year and a half as he blamed himself for his friend's deaths even though he'd already been on the ground bleeding out from three bullet holes by the time they'd arrived on scene.

"After that Christmas," Tommy said softly, "I went back to the force because I couldn't sit around doing nothing anymore. You two showed up and, I'm not gonna lie, everything that happened? Scared the living hell out of me."

He laughed and was relieved to see some of the tension ease out of the grip Sam had on the bottle. Tommy rubbed a hand over his head and went on, "Don't tell my wife, but I think I was ten times more scared than she was. You and Dean handled all of it like it was no big deal; which I guess to you it wasn't. Once we'd gone through all of that, though, I couldn't sit home anymore. You boys reminded me that there were people out there who needed help."

Sam nodded, then sat back in the chair. He took another drink and stared up at the stars.

"Do you regret what you do, Sam?" Tommy asked, taking a chance by turning the conversation toward Sam.

It took a long time and another sip of whiskey before Sam answered. His voice was almost inaudible as he whispered, "I never chose this. Never wanted it. I wanted to have a normal life. To be safe."

Tommy thought about the journal and the terrifying writing on it; the symbols that he hadn't recognized but had looked like pure evil. Nothing normal about any of that. Nothing normal about killing monsters and banishing ghosts. He wasn't sure how anyone would _choose_ that life, but then he reflected that life didn't always give you choices.

"I do regret it," Sam went on, almost to himself. He lifted the bottle for another drink, then leaned his head against the back of the seat and stared at the sky. "Not all of it, I guess. But a lot of it. I made a lot of bad decisions."

He almost said _we all do_ , but Tommy stopped himself. Cliches and trite platitudes weren't going to help the situation. He considered his words carefully, but Sam spoke up before he could say anything more.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I don't want to talk about it. I just want to be alone right now."

Tommy nodded. He considered it a success that he'd made it this far without being dismissed. He said, "Ok," but made no move to leave. In fact, he settled himself more comfortably in the seat and looked out at the dark waters of the lake.

It took a minute, but Sam shifted in the chair and repeated, "I want to be alone."

"Yes you do," Tommy said, meeting Sam's gaze, "but what you need is for someone to be here right now."

Sam didn't say anything, but looked away. Minutes passed. Tommy didn't move. Finally, he heard a shaky sigh. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam lift the bottle again and, for a moment, Tommy thought he was going to drain it dry. He couldn't tell how much was left; Dean had already put a pretty good dent in it, but Sam hadn't exactly been taking small sips. Wondering if he should step in, heaven knew the kid was going to feel like crap in the morning as it was, Tommy was saved from needing to make that decision.

The bottle appeared in front of him and Tommy accepted it from Sam's shaking hand. Sam didn't say anything. He just leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. Tommy placed the bottle in the sand to his left and settled back to wait the night out.

* * *

The best thing about plans is that they're not set in stone, Dean decided.

He yawned and blinked a few dozen times until the clock came back into focus. After midnight. So much for escaping the hospital and hitting the bottle. He hadn't fallen asleep, merely zoned out for the past few hours. His great escape had started off ok earlier, but by the time he'd managed to get his pants on, he'd had to sit down and catch his breath and let the spinning sensation die down.

That had been hours ago.

Since then, he'd stared blindly at the late night movie and tried to figure out how they were going to get back to fighting Leviathans when he didn't know if Sam would ever be ok again and he couldn't even get dressed without needing to take a breather. Late night television didn't exactly lend itself to coherent thinking and he'd been too sick and in too much pain to actually carry out his original plan to get out of the hospital.

The shaking in his hands hadn't improved and he'd dropped Tommy's phone three times in the past two hours. No calls or texts from Arla or Sam which should have made him feel better but didn't because he knew without a doubt that Sam wasn't sleeping. He wasn't sleeping and he wasn't calling. Which probably meant he was sitting there wide awake and trying to remember everything that had happened and figure out a way to deal with it.

Dean groaned, pressing his fingers to his eyes. Sam handled stuff by mentally pulling it apart at the seams, picking at every single loose thread until he could unravel it all. He talked it out, whether on his own or by hashing the whole thing out with Dean as a sounding board. Dean had never understood that method. Sure, talking out a plan to take out a nest of vamps usually was a good idea. But talking out the crap that they went through?

Boxing it all up and forgetting about it was a much better solution.

Dean wished he'd been able to get that through Sam's head. If you didn't talk about it, didn't think about it, and just shoved it into a dark space of your head and shut the screaming up with whatever distraction it took, then it didn't tear you apart.

Of course, Sam wasn't exactly talking now, but Dean didn't think it was because he'd boxed everything up and forgotten it. He wasn't talking because he was too busy taking the entire fiasco apart and staring at all the broken pieces, trying his hardest to make sense of what had happened.

Well, you just didn't make sense of hell. Dean gritted his teeth and stared back at the television. They'd already done this, but in reverse. Sam had pressed him to talk. Dean hadn't wanted to, still didn't want to. And Sam hadn't been able to understand.

 _Now you know why I didn't want to talk about it_.

But the thought gave him no satisfaction at all. He'd never _wanted_ Sam to understand this. Never wanted him to have to go through it. But now he had. And even after getting back, he'd had to put up with his own mind torturing him for months.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and he looked over to see Matt coming into the room. Dean glared at him and said, "You again."

"I was thinking the same thing," Matt said all too cheerfully for it being the middle of the night. "You're still here."

"You thought I wouldn't be?"

Matt raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest, "Every time I walk in I'm surprised to see you. I notice you got your pants on."

"Gold star for me," Dean muttered, annoyed with the entire situation. He rubbed at his throbbing forehead. Every hour the sinus pressure seemed to increase. Shooting the nurse another glare, he asked, "What do you want now?"

"Sick of me?"

"I've seen prettier nurses."

Matt laughed, "I'm glad to hear it. Well, you'll be rid of me soon. This is my last round."

Figuring that cheering might be seen as impolite, Dean muttered, "Long shift."

"Little longer than usual, yeah," Matt said, logging into the computer then checking over the IV solutions that Dean had been too dizzy to even attempt to disconnect. "A nurse called in sick for day shift and one of the night girls was in a car accident. I picked up some extra hours to help cover."

Dean nodded, allowing Matt to check his blood pressure. Once he was finished, Dean asked, "She ok?"

"Hm?" Matt asked as he typed the blood pressure reading into the computer.

"The girl. In the accident. She ok?"

Matt turned back with a smile. "She's ok. Beat to hell and in need of a new car, but she's ok."

"Good," Dean said, watching as Matt pulled a small bag of IV solution from the drawer under the computer. He'd figured out by now that the little bags were the antibiotics. Stifling a yawn, he asked, "Why nursing?"

Matt spiked the bag and hung it on the pole. He glanced at Dean. "Why not?"

"Uh," Dean floundered, knowing if he said _because it's a girl's job,_ he'd probably offend the guy. "I...I guess...no reason. You always wanted to be a nurse?"

"Absolutely not!" Matt laughed again, stepping closer and scanning the ID band on Dean's wrist. "I wanted to fly the space shuttle."

"Who didn't?" Dean couldn't help but grin. "So why-"

"Why am I here instead of exploring the far reaches of space?"

"Yeah."

"Weird as it sounds, it's all because of my sisters." Matt smiled as he scanned the medication bag then walked back over. "I've got an older sister named Melanie and two younger ones, Harper and Harlow. Harlow was born two and a half months early and spent a long time in the hospital. I was eight and remember thinking how tiny she was and I didn't know how she could live."

Dean watched him disconnect the empty bag of antibiotics and skillfully connect the new one, threading the tubing through the IV pump without hesitation.

Matt leaned down to program the pump and went on, "There was a nurse there who spent a lot of time with me. Everyone was always focusing on my mom and dad and dealing with all the technical stuff that I couldn't comprehend. I was just scared seeing that little thing lying there covered with tubes and wires. They kept telling me she was really a baby, but she didn't even look real. This one nurse paid attention to me and turned a place that had been giving me nightmares into a place that felt like home."

"So that's why?"

"Why I went into nursing?"

"Yeah."

"Part of it." Matt straightened and said, "I didn't really decide until I was thirteen and Melanie was dying of cancer." He smiled although there was a hint of sadness in his eyes now. "There was another nurse who did the same thing for me then as that first nurse had done. I wanted to help people the way they had helped me and my family. And that's what I get to do every single day. May not be what most would consider a traditional job for a guy, but I think it's time for that stereotype to be laid to rest."

Dean swallowed, knowing that Matt knew what he'd been thinking. Matt grinned again and added, "If anyone thinks that all this job consists of is passing meds and handling poop, I'd like to also mention the holding half-severed limbs together and replacing organs better left inside-"

"Ok ok!" Dean held up a hand. He'd chopped heads off of creatures of every sort and been covered in monster goo plenty of times. Had stitched himself and his brother up more times than he could count, but his stomach was not appreciating Matt's vivid imagery. "You win."

Matt laughed, then added, "Although there is a lot of poop too-"

"Seriously. Just stop." Dean gagged. "I'll have a greater appreciation for all nurses, male and female, going forward. Ok? No more details."

"Deal." Matt kept grinning and Dean wondered how much coffee the guy had consumed to still be this freakin' happy after working a 14 hour shift. Crossing his arms over his chest, Matt leaned against the edge of the bed and said, "Now."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Now?"

"Now. How about you let me finish this shift by doing the one thing I haven't managed to do all day."

"What's that?"

"How about you let me take care of you?" Matt asked, his grin gone and expression concerned.

Dean felt himself growing defensive again and said, "Isn't that what you've been doing all day? Shoving pills at me and taking my blood pressure every five minutes?"

Matt shook his head, "That's only part of it. I didn't go into nursing to shove pills at people. I did it to help people. And you haven't let me help you once today."

"What do you want from me?" Dean shook his head, regretting not having made his break earlier like he'd hoped. If this guy thought he was going to stand there and psychoanalyze him...

"I want you to let me help you. You've been in pain all day and you haven't taken anything for it; refused everything I've offered. You haven't been resting and you should be given what you just went through." Matt held up a hand when Dean opened his mouth to cut him off. "You also sound like you've got a wicked cold coming on which is making you even more miserable. I don't know you, but what I do know is you're sick and you're tired and instead of resting you've been sitting here all day punishing yourself."

Dean glared at him, but knew it lacked heat. He was too tired to put any effort into it.

Matt continued, "How about you take something for the pain and get some sleep tonight? You're obviously worried about your brother, and from what I saw earlier, I can tell he needs help. But you're not going to be able to help him through whatever he's dealing with if you're too sick and too exhausted to function."

The room fell silent and they stared at each other. Why he'd wound up with the pushy, meddling nurse, Dean wasn't sure. What he was sure of, though, was that the pushy, meddling nurse had a point. He _was_ sick. And he _was_ exhausted. He'd run himself so far into the ground that it felt like he was buried six feet under again. Bobby was dead. Cas was out of his mind; and perhaps it was a form of sick justice after everything the angel had done.

Either way, his two greatest allies and friends were gone and there was still a war to be fought. And the only person he had left with him in the fight was barely holding himself together. Dean knew Matt was right. Something Bobby had said not long before he'd been killed suddenly rushed back at Dean.

 _You find your reasons to get back in the game. I don't care if it's love or spite or a ten-dollar bet._

Well, Dean wasn't sure yet either what his reason was, but he did know that he needed to get back in the game. He hadn't lost everything to give up now. So he nodded.

"Ok."

"Ok?" Matt repeated, but he didn't look surprised.

"Yeah. Ok. You're right." Dean waved a hand, relenting but not willing to be nice about it. "Get me something to take the edge off so I can sleep. And it better be something stronger than a Tylenol. If you're gonna drug me, it better be with the good stuff."

Matt nodded, "I'll go grab something and be right back."

"Isn't that the same thing as shoving pills at me?" Dean muttered.

"I'll hand it to you," Matt smiled, "instead of shoving it. How's that sound?"

Dean rolled his eyes and Matt grinned as he walked out the door.

* * *

Arla made her cup of tea and ate her snack. She read a few chapters of her book with a second cup of tea. Every few minutes she peeked outside, but nothing changed. They were just sitting there. She couldn't tell from this distance whether or not Sam was still drinking. After an three cups, she stopped drinking tea. Twenty minutes later she gave up on the book. After an hour, she left the kitchen light on and went back to bed and fell asleep.

The sun woke her up hours later. Not with a gentle glow from behind the curtains, but with a blinding beam directed straight at her face from where Tommy had obviously not pulled the curtains closed all the way. Unhappily, she rolled over to escape the sunlight only to realize the bed next to her was still empty. Wide awake, Arla sat up and glanced at the clock. Just before six in the morning. That did not bode well. Hurrying to the window, she looked out and found both chairs by the fire pit still occupied.

Sighing, she turned away and got dressed. Stepping out into the kitchen, she started the coffee and debated her next move. She could start breakfast on the off chance they might be planning to come inside at some point. She could make herself something to eat and pick up her book again and wait. Or she could go out there and find out what was going on and make them come inside. The fact that they had never come inside worried her.

Arla stood at the window trying to sort her thoughts as the coffee brewed. She yawned and tried to tell herself she was still young enough to pull all nighters. Smiling ruefully, Arla turned from the window when the coffee finished and poured a cup. Sitting down at the table with a muffin and the coffee, she watched out the window for any sign of movement.

When no one had walked through the door by the time she had finished, Arla decided it was time to go out there and see what they were doing. She pulled on a jacket and her tennis shoes and slipped out the door. The morning air bit her cheeks and helped wake her up even more than the coffee had. Zipping up her jacket, Arla was relieved that it wasn't too cold. A nice cool morning, but not so cold as to be uncomfortable. Which meant that they hadn't frozen to death in their seats overnight.

She reached the chairs and smiled.

Tommy was sound asleep, head tilted back against the chair and mouth wide open. She'd never doubted the supposed fact that you swallowed however many spiders in your sleep in your lifetime, but she figured Tommy had swallowed a few more than the average person. The Adirondack chairs weren't exactly the most comfortable sleeping chairs in the world, but Arla had never found a single place that Tommy couldn't easily fall asleep.

She noticed the bottle of whiskey in the sand to his left and wondered if it had been a full bottle when Sam had taken it. Thinking about the way Dean had been drinking when she'd found them, somehow she doubted the bottle had been full. Even so, it looked less than a third full now. Glancing over at the other chair, she found Sam blearily staring at her.

"Morning," she whispered quietly with a smile.

He looked half-asleep and didn't say anything so she settled herself in the sand next to his chair and glanced out at the water. Sunrise on the lake was always a beautiful sight and today was no different. Of course, there were more pressing thoughts on her mind than merely enjoying the view. Since she had no idea what had happened last night, Arla felt that she should take things slow.

Looking back at Sam, she tried to gauge how he was doing. Both he and Tommy were settled in the chairs with a relaxed, loose-limbed posture. She knew Tommy was settled that way because he was comfortable. With Sam, Arla guessed it had less to do with comfort and more to do with alcohol. She wished she'd thought about the fact that Dean would probably have more alcohol with him than the bottles of beer he'd been going through like they were going out of style.

Not that she could have, or should have, done anything about it if she _had_ known about the bottle of whiskey. Because she wasn't their mother and she had no business going through their stuff. Even so, she wished she'd seen this coming.

Sam's gaze found hers after a minute and he frowned as he studied her like he'd never seen her before. She smiled and hoped it was merely the fact that he was sleep-deprived and drunk and not that he was having an issue where he didn't know what was real or not. Trying again, Arla whispered, "Good morning, Sam."

"Arla?" he asked, tilting his head toward her and looking profoundly ill for even that minute effort.

"It's me." She nodded and wondered what she should do next.

She wanted to get him a big bottle of water and a cup of coffee and some aspirin and force him to take all of it. If she were dealing with his brother, Arla wouldn't hesitate to boss him into doing just that. Dean would be angry and glare at her and possibly do a good bit of sputtering, but he'd do what she told him to. Sam was different, though, and, for whatever reason, she didn't think that would work. So she remained silent and waited. After a moment, some of the fog in Sam's eyes cleared.

"Hey," he whispered, sounding as awful as he looked. "Morning."

Arla smiled again and asked, "Did you get any sleep last night?"

His eyes slid closed, but he said, "Think so."

 _Not enough,_ Arla was certain. And she didn't really consider alcohol-induced unconsciousness as sleep.

"Did something happen?" Sam asked, forcing his eyes open again, his body tensing. He still looked sick, but now he looked worried too.

For a second, she didn't know what he meant, then she realized and quickly shook her head, "Nothing happened. I haven't heard anything from Dean. I was just starting breakfast and came out to see if you two wanted any."

Sam relaxed and closed his eyes again, completely ignoring her offer of breakfast.

"I could go for some breakfast."

Arla looked over as Tommy eased forward and stretched. He grinned at her and said, "Morning, gorgeous. Tell me there's coffee."

"There's coffee," Arla said, returning his smile. Sam didn't acknowledge the conversation at all and she wasn't sure what to do next. Tommy saved her from needing to decide.

"How 'bout you get things going and we'll be there in a few minutes," he said to her, but his eyes were on Sam.

"I can do that," Arla said, pushing herself to her feet and brushing the sand off her jeans.

She hesitated for a moment, but Tommy caught her eye and gave her a quick smile and tilted his head toward the house. Sam hadn't moved or opened his eyes again, so Arla turned around and went back to the kitchen. Hating to leave them like that, she did anyway, trusting Tommy.

The coffee was still on the warmer and she set out two more mugs but didn't pour it yet because she had a feeling it was going to take them some time to get back into the house. Instead, she pulled out a fry pan and decided to make an omelette for herself and Tommy. Arla pulled out some ham and cheese from the fridge and knew that it was unlikely Sam would be interested in eating anything anytime soon. Her thoughts turned to the past and she shook her head. She knew what it felt like to suffer from a hangover.

It had been many, _many_ years ago, but she hadn't forgotten the one and only night she'd gotten drunk. Cracking eggs into the pan, Arla smiled as she remembered being young and stupid and drinking way too many vodka shots one New Year's Eve. She'd never done shots before and found that they went down much more easily than she'd anticipated. And they'd even stayed down although she spent most of the night laying on her bed knowing that if she so much as moved one muscle her head was going to pop. Either that, or she was going to throw up.

Neither grisly option had happened, but she hadn't shaken the hangover until three in the afternoon the next day. Adding the cheese and ham, Arla guessed that Sam was probably going to feel the same way she had and knew it was going to be a very long day.

She peeked out the window and saw that Tommy was crouched down next to Sam's chair and talking to him. It took several minutes, and she'd finished the omelette and decided maybe she shouldn't have been so quick to start making it, before she finally saw Tommy nod and extend a hand to help Sam up. Arla watched from the window as they made their return to the house. Confident that the slowest, coldest molasses on the planet could move faster in the dead of winter than they were moving, Arla poured herself another cup of coffee.

Sipping the coffee, Arla watched as, after every few steps, they ground to a complete halt. Tommy didn't let go of Sam's arm and it was a good thing. He was, technically, walking on his own, but wavering the entire time. Arla didn't have her husband's eagle eyes, but she was pretty sure that Sam had _his_ eyes closed. Every time they stopped moving, she held her breath. Every time, though, they managed to start moving again and she counted it as a huge victory when they made it to the back door without any vomiting or collapsing.

Hurrying to the door, Arla kept her mouth shut when one quick shake of Tommy's head warned her off before she could say a peep. Instead, she just held the door open for them and started worrying about what Dean was going to say when he found out what had happened. He'd trusted her to watch out for his brother and somehow Arla was certain this was not going to live up to his expectations.

She stepped out of their way as they passed, then closed the door behind them. Turning around, she frowned as they crossed the living room without stopping at the table. Taking a step toward them, Arla stopped by the kitchen counter when she heard Tommy's voice.

"Well, you're not gonna make it on your own," Tommy said, tugging Sam's arm over his shoulder as they neared the staircase.

Arla didn't hear Sam's reply, but she heard Tommy quietly laughing at whatever Sam had said as they started up the stairs. They went even slower up the stairs and she could see Sam's free hand clinging to the railing the entire way. Sighing, she went back to the table and sat down with her coffee. The omelette would need to be reheated by the time they came back.

It took a good twenty minutes before she heard faster, lighter footsteps coming down the stairs. Tommy headed toward her with a grin and asked, "Breakfast?"

She nodded and crossed back to the stove to serve up the omelette. Tommy headed straight for the coffee pot and as he poured himself a cup, Arla said, "So?"

"It was a long night," Tommy answered, taking a sip of coffee and rubbing his eyes.

"How's he doing?"

Tommy shrugged, leaning a hip against the counter. He said, "Right now he's doing his best not to hurl. Again."

Arla grimaced and reheated the omelette in the microwave. She asked, "How did he take it when you went out last night?"

"Think he would've preferred it if I hadn't come out, but we reached an understanding."

"Did you take the bottle away from him?" Arla handed him a plate, then rummaged for some silverware as he headed for the table.

Tommy shook his head. "Nope. He gave it to me."

"He did?" Arla raised an eyebrow and joined him at the table.

"He did. If I hadn't gone out, though, I'm betting he probably wouldn't have stopped until he'd finished it off."

"Did he talk to you at all?" Arla asked, and could see the answer was much more complex than the simple nod of Tommy's head would lead her to believe.

They _had_ talked. And she wanted to ask what had been said, but there was something in Tommy's eyes that told her she really didn't need to know. So she nodded back, grateful that things had gone as smoothly as they had. Wrapping her hands around the coffee mug, Arla's thoughts returned to Dean and she really hoped Sam would be finished throwing up by the time his brother walked through the door.

She looked at Tommy as he devoured his breakfast and said, "You managed to catch some sleep, I noticed."

He smiled, "Yeah. You know me. I can sleep anywhere."

"Obviously. Do you think he slept at all?"

"Possibly," Tommy shrugged, taking a sip of coffee. "I'm not sure what time it was when he handed over the whiskey, but we didn't talk again after that. I didn't hear anything out of him the rest of the night so he was either passed out or sleeping or just sitting there stewing all night."

Arla figured the last option was the most likely. She shook her head. "I am not looking forward to telling Dean about this."

Tommy snorted. "I can see it not going over very well."

"Not at all." Arla sighed and glanced at the time. "He's going to be chomping at the bit to get out of that hospital so he's probably already in a wonderful mood. I should head up there sooner rather than later to keep him from hitchhiking all the way here."

"I can see him doing that." Tommy laughed. "Or just stealing a car. Whichever would be easier. And you're not going anywhere. I'll head up there after I take a quick shower. Take him some clean clothes and be ready to spring him."

"You don't have to go," Arla frowned. "You were up all night-"

"I probably got more sleep than any of the three of you did." Tommy gave her a knowing look and a quick kiss.

He was probably right, she realized. With a sigh, she said, "Alright. I'll stay here and keep an eye on Sam. I can't say I envy you having to tell Dean that Sam spent the evening drinking his whiskey."

Tommy said, "You know. We could just go and get a massage."

Arla laughed despite the situation.

* * *

Dean stared at himself in the mirror and wasn't sure if he should consider what he was seeing an improvement or not. His eyes were reddened and shadowed and he really needed a shave. Placing his hands on the edges of the sink, he leaned against it for a moment and closed his eyes.

After taking the heavy-duty painkiller Matt had given him the previous night, Dean had slept. Like a rock. For a solid nine hours. He sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair, hoping he was going to be able to handle what the day was bringing.

Straightening up, he reached for the clean shirt Tommy had brought and pulled it over his head. His hands were still shaky, but it wasn't as bad as it had been, although he knew a drink would make a world of a difference. He rubbed his mouth and thought about the bottle of whiskey in his bag.

He'd awakened this morning to find a pile of clean clothes on the bedside table with a note from Tommy saying he'd gone for coffee and would be back. So Dean had dragged himself out of bed and taken a quick shower. There had been no messages on his phone this morning and, until he had the chance to talk to Tommy, he'd decided not to call Sam in case his brother was miraculously sleeping.

Rolling up his sleeves, he decided that he felt better. Not great, but better. Taking the pill had alleviated the pain he felt and served double duty as it shut his mind down enough that he could actually sleep. He felt lighter somehow, like he could breathe easy again. Rubbing his chest and straightening up, Dean took a deep breath and steeled himself for the day.

Opening the door and stepping out into the room, he found Tommy walking back into the room with a cup of coffee in his hand. Tommy smiled and said, "Morning."

"Morning." Dean nodded.

One of the nurses had taken away the blankets and extra pillows that Sam had used so Dean slowly headed for the couch, leaving the armchair for Tommy. Moving too fast still made him dizzy and he was not about to fall over in front of Tommy. Easing down, he watched Tommy slide the overbed table with the unwanted breakfast tray closer to him. Once it was positioned in front of him, Tommy sat down in the armchair.

"So?" Dean prompted, not intending to touch the food until he had an update.

"He's ok, Dean," Tommy answered without needing any clarification on what Dean meant.

"Ok?"

"Yes."

Dean studied the older man, sensing that there was more to the story. Not sure he wanted to ask, Dean did anyway. "What aren't you telling me?"

Tommy looked him straight on and said, "He found your bottle of whiskey."

Dean's stomach dropped like the proverbial ton of bricks and he realized right then what an appropriate cliche that was. Because that was exactly what it felt like. Mouth dry as a bone, his mind raced as he tried to remember exactly how much had been left in the bottle. He felt his blood pressure rise. Angry at Sam for drinking the alcohol that _he_ needed so badly and angry at himself for not seeing this very situation coming from a mile away, Dean wondered how bad it was.

Gathering his wits, he asked, "How much did he drink?"

"Enough."

That wasn't a good answer. Dean's heart skipped a beat. "Did he drink all of it?"

"No." Tommy shook his head, leaning back in the chair. "But he was headed that way when I found him."

"How is he?" Dean's relatively good mood was long forgotten and he braced himself for even worse news.

Tommy's smile was humorless this time as he said, "He started off the morning hugging a toilet."

"Damn it."

"He wouldn't take anything for the nausea and wouldn't even take an ibuprofen for the headache."

"Of course he wouldn't," Dean rolled his eyes. His brother's brand new aversion to taking medications was beginning to seriously piss him off.

"By the time I left to come here, he was doing better," Tommy said, then took a sip of his coffee.

"Better?" Dean asked, suspiciously.

"Sleeping it off," Tommy elaborated.

He checked his watch and asked, "So when did the idiot start binging?"

"Around midnight."

"How'd you find out?"

"Heard him go outside and I caught sight of the bottle. Figured he didn't need to be out there drinking on his own so I went and sat with him until he was ready to go back inside."

"How long'd that take?"

"Arla had breakfast waiting for us."

Dean cursed. "Did he eat?"

"He did last night, but nothing for breakfast."

"Wonderful." Dean shook his head, mood turning yet another shade darker. He looked at his watch again and decided if the doctor didn't show up in the next half hour he was walking out.

Tommy tilted his coffee cup toward the table and said, "You haven't eaten breakfast either."

"Not hungry."

"Neither was your brother," Tommy commented. "Of course, he was living out his regret for drinking your whiskey. You don't have that excuse so if you want to get out of here, and I know you do, then you better eat something and I'm not asking."

If it had been anyone else, Dean would've thrown punches. Instead, he just shot Tommy the same sort of glare he would have sent Bobby's way if he'd said something like that. And then he picked up the knife and buttered a slice of toast.

* * *

 **There you go. Didn't quite go the way you were expecting did it? Good thing there are actually some people around watching out for the boys right now or they would be in MUCH bigger trouble! PS the line about the massage? I was STUCK big time right there and my MOM suggested that line! (she hasn't read a word of this lol but she suggested that and it was so perfect). Thanks Mom! :) Hope you all enjoyed! Good news is that ch 21 is rolling along very nicely and should be up sooner rather than later! :D**


	21. I could never take the world alone

**Hi everyone! So...as you all know I am a MAJOR night owl. I could happily stay up all night if I can sleep till two in the afternoon. However, the necessity of a job to pay the bills doesn't quite allow for that plan. SO...believe it or not but for the past 2 weeks i have been getting up at 4:45 AM in order to spend 2 hours writing before i have to get ready for work. :D Shocker of all shockers...I have been more productive than ever in my life. Who knew? That's why you got the last chapter in a decent amount of time, why you're getting this one so soon and why chapter 22 is almost completely finished! :D I am an exhausted worthless lump by evening, but man am I getting a lot done before work! :)**

 **Ok, on to the chapter! I feel like I should maybe post a little note of warning on this chapter and the next one... Not that it hasn't been obvious, but the boys are both in a very dark place at this point; as they truly were in S7. I've been rewatching S7 to make sure I'm keeping within the general feel of what was going on that season. So I just want to give a heads up that there are some discussions in upcoming chapters that deal with _exactly_ how dark things are right now for both of them. If you are sensitive to the topic of suicide, I didn't want it to come without a warning. It is all in a discussion format, nothing happens, but I thought I should warn.**

 **Hope you enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 21:**_ _ **I could never take the world alone**_

"Where is he?"

When Arla's welcoming smile faltered at his blunt question, Dean wanted to punch himself in the teeth for being so rude.

The moment Tommy had told him that Sam had been drinking, his relatively decent mood had evaporated and things had gone downhill from that moment forward. The long wait for the doctor, the stop at the pharmacy so Tommy could pick up the meds Dean didn't want, and every other aspect of the trip from the hospital had only served to increase his frustration. By the time he'd walked into the unfamiliar house, something had snapped.

Arla regained her smile, although now it was less welcoming and more sympathetic as she said, "He's upstairs sleeping."

"Thanks," Dean said, forcing a smile and feeling like it was worth it when Arla's smile widened and she stepped forward to squeeze his arm.

He took a cursory glance around the house, but didn't linger. Heading upstairs, Dean felt the tension and underlying anger escalate. Hand tightening on the railing, he could feel the weakness in every part of his body. It made him angry and so did the fact that Sam had gotten into his things and decided to help himself to the bottle of whiskey that Dean so badly needed right now.

Leaning against the wall to catch his breath, he ran a hand over his mouth and wondered where the bottle was now. According to Tommy, Sam hadn't finished it completely. Maybe there was still enough to take the edge off until they got out of here and Dean could find a bar. _The sooner the better._ Starting up the steps again, Dean decided they might as well get on the road rather than lingering any longer.

He'd get Sam up, give him five minutes to get his act together, then grab their stuff and be gone five minutes later. Satisfied with the plan, Dean dragged himself up another step. Of course, once he had that part of the plan figured out, he realized he had to come up with a plan for what they were going to do after leaving. He had to figure out a direction to go and he had to figure out what they were going to do about Dick Roman when he couldn't even make it up a flight of stairs without huffing and puffing.

Dean gritted his teeth. He was back to thinking about Roman and Bobby and Cas and Sam and his blood pressure went up with every step. By the time he'd reached the upper landing he was furious and ready to take his anger out on the the one person he had left. And he had every right to, Dean told himself. He'd been sick in the hospital while Sam had decided he would conveniently tune out all of their problems and have a drink.

Turning toward the one door that was half closed, he shoved it open and prepared to start yelling. Instead, he slumped heavily against the door frame and felt the anger drain out of him with one glance at his brother.

Sam was sound asleep on top of the comforter, curled on his side in the middle of the bed without a pillow under his head, hands and expression relaxed in a way that Dean had not been expecting. There was part of him that felt angry that Sam was able to sleep like he didn't have a care in the world while Dean was left to pick up the pieces. He knew he was being unfair given what Sam had been going through. Which was why he chose not to shout at his brother like he had intended to.

Rescheduling his plans, Dean decided that maybe they could wait a bit longer before hitting the road. He rubbed at the never ending ache in the pit of his stomach and considered leaving Sam to sleep while he went out for awhile. Sam needed the sleep and he needed a drink.

But he couldn't face the Penders right now and he was too tired to even consider trying to find the bottle of Jack Daniel's; if Arla hadn't dumped it down a drain. His gaze roamed the room and he sighed when he took in the unpacked bags. The floor from one wall to the edge of the bed was littered with their gear and guns. It looked like Sam might have been trying to clean the guns but never managed to finish.

Apparently he'd been planning to do some laundry too, but never got that accomplished either. Dirty laundry lay scattered across the floor in a haphazard way that was messier than anything Dean ever did. There were piles of clothes, the relatively clean ones, all over the bed around where Sam was sleeping as if he'd been in the middle of folding them and fallen asleep.

Dean sighed and sat down at the foot of the bed, too tired to stand up any longer. The mess might have been amusing at another time. Now it just felt like another neon sign that his brother was not doing well. As if he needed another neon sign, Dean mused. The drinking had been a bad sign, but not the first bad sign along the way and he still had no clue what was going to fix the problem.

He really wished he could call Bobby. Haul Sam back to South Dakota and hide out for a week or so until they figured out how to deal with this mess. But he couldn't call Bobby; not now, not ever. Dean lowered his head to rest in his hands. There was no going back now. He wasn't getting Bobby back. All he could do was go forward. And forward meant taking down Dick Roman Industries piece by piece.

Trying to focus on smaller issues rather than the seemingly insurmountable ones, Dean lifted his head and glanced around the room. He considered trying to clean some of it up. Let Sam sleep for a bit longer and pick up the pieces he could pick up. He nodded. He could do that. Repack the gear and then they'd be one step closer to leaving when Sam woke up. It was the smart thing to do. It was what made the most sense.

Dean didn't move.

Smart thing or not, he didn't feel up to any of it. Sneezing into his sleeve, he groaned and massaged his forehead. He added a decongestant to his mental list of things he needed to buy which only served to remind him he was running low on funds. The congestion wasn't getting better but he felt the tickle in his throat that told him he was going to be enjoying post-nasal drip misery soon. Would the fun never end? Shaking his head, Dean straightened and looked around the room again.

Focus. Staying focused was what he needed to do. Lose focus and he was gonna lose it all.

Problem was, he couldn't focus. His thoughts muddled and blurred like a child's finger paint masterpiece. Rubbing his hands against his jeans, the only clear thought he seemed to be able to form was the thought that he really, really, needed a drink.

So caught up in that one, clear thought, Dean was entirely unprepared when Sam went from peaceful sleep to wide awake and shouting "No!" at the top of his lungs. There had been no indication or warning of distress until that moment. Sam scrambled upright so quickly that Dean jumped back from where he'd been perched on the edge of the bed and almost fell on his butt.

Struggling to straighten up, Dean held his hands out, automatically trying to calm his brother, "Sam, it's ok-"

For a moment, Dean thought that Sam wasn't hearing him, wasn't seeing him, but then Sam's eyes locked on him and he flinched back and held his hands up as he stared at Dean. He didn't know what Sam was seeing, but whatever it was, it obviously terrified him.

"Sam," Dean tried again, rebalancing so he was standing up straight. Of course, even that little movement was enough to set Sam off again.

"No, no, please-" Sam was blinking rapidly like he still wasn't sure what he was seeing. Or maybe it was because he wasn't fully awake. He shook his head and backed away further, his hands up defensively like he was afraid Dean was going to hit him. "Don't! Please stop."

"Sammy, I'm not doing anything. Ok? Take a breath will you?"

Sam did, but he still looked shaken and pressed himself up against the headboard with his hands still extended in defense. A pile of relatively clean clothes fell off the bed as he moved.

Dean smiled even though he didn't have any reason to smile. He stayed still and said, "That's good. Doing good. You with me?"

"Dean?" Sam's tone was different this time and Dean could see the difference; could see that this time Sam was truly awake.

Sam pushed off from the headboard and got to his feet so fast that he stumbled and Dean reached out for him even though he wasn't sure he should. Sam surprised him again by not flinching at the movement this time. Before Dean had the chance to catch Sam to provide support, Sam's hands were all over him. At first, Dean couldn't figure out what was happening, then it hit him and he felt sicker.

Because he remembered a few other times over the past few months that Sam would look at him in fear and then start assessing him for wounds that weren't there. Dean had experienced enough nightmares of his own to know what it felt like to be so caught up in the horror of what you'd seen that you couldn't be sure you were really awake. As Sam's hands frantically ran over his chest and his arms, Dean tried to remain calm. He allowed the inspection and told himself this was the aftermath of a nightmare. Sam wasn't hallucinating.

Dean hoped he was right about that as he murmured softly, "I'm fine, Sam. Nothing there. It was a nightmare, man, just a nightmare."

Sam shuddered as his right hand touched Dean's neck. Sam brought his hand back and stared at it with a mixture of confusion and terror. Dean hated to consider what type of horrible death he'd died in Sam's nightmare to have him looking at him like that.

 _He's remembering all the blood,_ Dean thought, holding his breath, _but he's not seeing any now_. _Come on, Sam! Snap out of it!_

"Dean." Sam's voice wavered, but he lowered his hand. He met Dean's eyes and the confusion was gone; exhaustion was all that remained. "I...sorry. Uh...yeah, sorry. I just...I don't feel good."

His eyes fluttered like he was fighting to hold onto consciousness and Dean grabbed him by the upper arms before he could go anywhere. Easing him back towards the bed, Dean's heart pounded painfully against his ribs, but Sam didn't pass out. He put his hands against the bed and kept going down until he settled on the floor, back pressed to the bed. That wasn't what Dean had been intending, but he figured it would work.

"Hey," he crouched down and snapped his fingers in front of Sam's face when his eyes started to slide closed. "Focus."

Sam nodded, bringing shaking hands up to rub at his eyes. He let his head rest against the edge of the bed and said, "Sorry."

"It's fine. You awake now?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, still looking ill and jittery. "When'd you get here?"

"Few minutes ago."

"You ready to head out?" Sam asked, glancing around the room and wilting back against the bed even more. "Sorry, I meant to have everything packed and ready when you got here."

"Shut up, Sam," Dean snapped without meaning to. He pressed a hand against his stomach and stood up. The room did a gentle tilt and spin and he had to put another hand out to catch the wall before he fell over.

Sam frowned, uncertain and worried. "Are you ok?"

"I'm great." Dean shifted until he could lean against the little desk. He took a breath and tried to tamp down on the anger.

"You don't look great. What did the doctor say? Did you just walk out or-"

"I'm fine."

"But-"

"Drop it," Dean cut him off. There was a bottle of water on the desk behind him and he pressed it into Sam's hand. "You eat anything today?"

"Don't feel like eating right now," Sam said, eyes on the bottle as he struggled to get the cap off.

Dean clenched his fists and kept them at his sides so he wouldn't be tempted to punch his brother. Instead of punching him or shouting at him, Dean said, "You need to eat."

"I don't think-"

"You can and you will."

"Dean." Sam's voice shook but Dean could tell he was trying not to let it.

He was still staring at the bottle of water. The cap was off, but he hadn't taken a drink yet. His face was pale, but beginning to show a tinge of green and Dean thought about the whiskey. A pang of sympathy hit him, but anger was much easier to deal with right now. It was Sam's own fault he was hungover. So he folded his arms across his chest, trying not to feel sorry for his stupid brother.

Sam looked up and swallowed hard before saying, "I can't go down there right now."

His eyes were wide and embarrassed. _Or scared,_ Dean wasn't sure which. Either way, it was time for a compromise. Forcing himself to keep his voice calm, Dean said, "You don't have to go downstairs, but you are gonna eat. What do you want?"

Sam didn't answer and he still wasn't taking a drink of water.

"Alright." Dean nodded, sensing the conversation was over. "I'll see what looks good."

"Dean-"

"Shut up, Sam."

Dean stood up abruptly and left the room without another word.

* * *

Arla looked over the discharge paperwork and the medications. Nothing unexpected. The only trick would be getting Dean to follow any of the instructions. She turned to Tommy and asked, "Did he eat lunch before you left the hospital?"

"No. The paperwork was finished by eleven so he was checked out before the lunch trays came up," Tommy said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. "He wasn't interested on the way home."

"I'm sure he wasn't." Arla nodded, smoothing the paperwork out into a neat pile. "How did things go at the hospital?"

Tommy snorted and shrugged. "Took the news about Sam as well as you might expect. Then I ticked him off when I told him to eat his breakfast. He hasn't said another word to me since."

Arla couldn't stop the smile even though she didn't like what she was hearing. She said, "Is it bad that I'm not surprised? He'll come around, I'm sure."

"Maybe." Tommy tapped a finger on the table, his eyes distant. "Or maybe they'll be gone before it makes any difference."

"Gone?" Arla sat down next to him and lowered her voice, "What are you talking about? Did he say something about leaving?"

"Didn't need to. It's written all over him. That kid is itching to be back on the road." Tommy turned to her and said, "I'm worried about him."

Arla thought there was cause to be worried about _both_ of them, but, if Tommy was bringing it up like this, she knew he had a good reason. She asked, "What's worrying you in particular?"

"He's on edge," Tommy said, expression grim. "Not just alert, vigilant, ready to strike like he was that Christmas. He was sick, sure, and they were dealing with a lot of crap in their personal lives that time too. But he was in control; knew what he needed to do and had a grip on himself."

"And you think he's not in control now?"

Tommy held her gaze and she didn't like what she saw. He said, "He's not in control. Not at all. He's reckless and dangerous. I don't think he fully sees it or knows how far gone he is. Or else he just isn't admitting it."

Arla didn't question how he had come to this conclusion. Tommy had years of experience reading people and figuring out what made them tick. She herself had picked up, right from the start, that things were bad and that Dean wasn't the same person he'd been years ago; neither was Sam, of course, but something felt off about Dean in a different way. Sam had gone through something traumatic and was trying to work his way through it. But with Dean-

"It's like deep down something broke inside him," Tommy said softly, giving voice to her own thoughts. "He's been through a lot of bad stuff; bad on a level we can't hope to understand and it's smashing him into dust. Whatever happened to Sam is just the most recent in a long string of events leading him to this point."

Arla shot a quick, wary glance to the staircase. She was suddenly uncomfortable talking about him like this. Keeping her voice even softer, she asked, "You figured all this out in the space of a few hours spent with someone who wasn't even talking to you?"

Tommy half smiled, then said, "I've been putting the pieces together ever since I first saw him and I don't like what I'm seeing."

"What do you see?" Arla whispered.

"A man who's lost hope."

Tommy's eyes were haunted and Arla remembered darker days when she'd thought the same thing about him.

"I see a man who doesn't know what he's fighting for anymore," Tommy went on. "A man who isn't sure he should even bother to continue fighting."

Arla's mouth went dry. "Are you saying he's-"

 _Suicidal._ She couldn't say the word out loud; it would make it too real. But one look at Tommy and she knew that was what he meant.

He nodded. "I think it's possible they both are."

Arla's eyes watered. She'd known that things were not right with Dean. That he was at the end of his rope. But she'd never thought about this possibility. And as bad as things were with Sam, this hadn't even crossed her mind. Of course, she hadn't been the one sitting outside with him all night. Maybe he'd said something to Tommy that he wasn't sharing with her.

Tommy squeezed her hand and leaned closer, "Whether it's good old fashioned stubbornness or their loyalty to each other, I don't think he, or Sam, are planning to do anything. Not deliberately. But going out on one of their hunts? Being reckless and taking chances they know they shouldn't? Chances they _know_ might kill 'em? That's a different story."

She nodded, knowing he was right. Wiping her tears away quickly, Arla put herself back in control knowing they could walk downstairs at any moment. "So what do we do now?"

"We do our best. That's all we can do." Tommy smiled. "There's nothing we can do if they choose to leave. If they're willing to stay even for a day or two, we might have the time to help them. I've got a foundation built with Sam. I wouldn't say he's been forthcoming with details or interested in talking, but he did hand me that bottle last night. I think he's looking for help even if he doesn't know how to ask for it. That's a good sign."

"And Dean?"

"He's not looking for anything except a drink." Tommy shook his head, lips pressed into a hard line. "What did you do with that bottle of whiskey by the way?"

Arla pointed to the kitchen. "I left it on the counter. As much as I wanted to pour it down the drain...I wasn't sure I should. I'm not their mother."

"Pour it down the drain," Tommy said without hesitation. "Go do it now and get rid of the bottle. Dean finds it, he's going to drink it. And I'm pretty sure I saw something about avoiding alcohol in that paperwork," his mouth twisted in a wry smile, "even if he wanted to ignore that part of the doctor's instructions."

"Ok." Arla nodded and hurried out to the kitchen. Her hands shook as she poured the bottle out.

"How about lunch?" Tommy appeared behind her as she threw the bottle into the recycling bin and made sure to cover it with some other stuff. "I'm hungry."

"Of course you are," she gave him a quick kiss then washed her hands. "What do you want to eat?"

"Just throw some sandwiches together," Tommy said, shooting a glance at the stairs when they heard slow footsteps.

Arla began pulling supplies together on the counter and caught a quick glimpse of Dean approaching. She didn't look at him directly until he'd arrived in front of the breakfast bar. She smiled and hoped for the best as she said, "Hey, Dean. Looking for some lunch?"

He nodded, not meeting her eyes, but he sat down on one of the stools at the bar. Putting the slices of bread out on a plate and exchanging a quick look with Tommy, Arla asked, "I've got turkey breast, barbecue chicken or salami."

For a moment it was like he hadn't heard her; his gaze was distant and weary. Then he glanced up at her and looked so much like a lost little boy that she wanted to hug him. He asked, "You got peanut butter?"

"I do." She'd have sent Tommy straight to the store right then if she hadn't. "Do you want jelly too?"

"Nah. I'll take turkey," he waved a hand. He sounded congested and sneezed a couple times into his sleeve before continuing. "PB&J for Sam though."

"Sure." Arla smiled, but didn't comment otherwise. She didn't want to compromise the tenuous lines of communication.

Tommy didn't share her worry. He set a bottle of water in front of Dean and asked, "How's he doing?"

"Swell." Dean said with an annoyed huff and an eye roll. But at least he'd spoken to Tommy again.

Arla finished making Dean's sandwich and saw that Tommy had already started on the peanut butter and jelly. Passing Dean the plate, she expected him to wait for the other sandwich and take them both upstairs as it appeared Sam wasn't planning to come down. But that didn't seem to be his plan after all, she realized as he started eating his sandwich right there.

So she made sandwiches for Tommy and herself while casting quick, assessing glances at Dean. She hadn't been terribly surprised by the less than friendly way he'd greeted her when he'd arrived. He'd looked awful and he didn't look any better now. His hands trembled ever so slightly and his eyes were underscored by dark shadows that rivaled the ones under his brother's eyes. She could see that he was in pain and felt sick, but she could also see the hopelessness that Tommy had been talking about.

"Good sandwich," Dean mumbled with his mouth full.

He made eye contact and gave her a thumbs up. Arla smiled a little. Dean might not see it yet, but she did.

There was still hope.

* * *

Dean paused just outside the room. Looking inside, he saw Sam on his knees, one hand braced on the bed while he tried to pick up the clothes on the floor with his other hand. He wasn't getting much accomplished from what Dean could tell. It didn't help that every three seconds he paused to press his hand against his mouth and squeeze his eyes closed. He got the impression that Sam hadn't magically regained his appetite since he'd been gone.

"Sam?"

"What?" Sam didn't look up.

"What're you doing?"

Sam straightened and leaned an elbow on the bed. He swallowed hard and asked, "Did you eat?"

"I did," Dean nodded even though Sam still wasn't looking at him. "Brought you a sandwich."

Obviously Sam wasn't impressed with the offer. Dean watched him close his eyes and go even greener. Shaking his head, Dean said, "You know how this works. Do the drinking, pay the price. You're the idiot who thought adding a hangover to the rest of your issues was a bright idea. You need the water and you need to eat. You do that and I'll get you a cup of coffee next."

Sam finally looked up at him and asked, "What do we do now?"

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and held the plate out. "You eat. Then we go."

It took a full minute before Sam sat down on the floor and took the plate. He set it on the floor next to him and stared at it for another minute before picking up the sandwich. Apparently he still wasn't ready to eat, though, Dean realized in annoyance as he sat there just holding the stupid thing. Dean was about to harass him and tell him to get on with it when Sam spoke up first.

"Maybe we should stay."

Eyes widening, Dean shook his head. "What? Maybe we should stay? Why the hell would we do that?"

Sam kept his eyes on his sandwich and said, "You sound like crap. You look like crap. And you just got out of the hospital. I think...I think we could stand to take it easy for a little longer."

Dean felt his hands tighten into fists again. He didn't want to stay. He wanted to get out of here so badly he could taste it. _Taste the alcohol, anyway_ , he thought, wondering yet again where the leftover whiskey was. He licked his lips and knew he could make it an hour if they left now. Two hours tops, before he wouldn't be able to drive any further without some alcohol. Two hours out from here wasn't far, but it would have to be far enough.

Sam frowned at him when he didn't answer.

"Eat your sandwich," Dean prompted, ignoring everything, "then we go."

"Where?"

"Where what?" Dean asked, even though he knew what Sam meant.

"Where are we going?"

"Wherever we find a lead. You can figure that out when we get to the motel." _While I get something to drink,_ he added for himself.

Sam shook his head. "I don't think we're ready to-"

"We're ready," Dean cut him off. "Time to get your head back in the game. People are dying out there and we've still got nothing on Dick and what he's really up to. Don't you think we've wasted enough time already?"

Dean took a sick sense of satisfaction at the guilty expression on Sam's face. He probably shouldn't have felt so triumphant considering Sam was hungover and not even close to being recovered from the devil riding shotgun for months on end. Just thinking about that quashed the triumph in a heartbeat. Dean could remember the fear he'd felt, still felt, thinking that maybe Cas had destroyed his brother beyond repair. He could remember the initial moment of relief, joy even, when they'd left the hospital and he'd truly believed a good night's sleep was all Sam needed.

It had only been four days, but it seemed like four lifetimes ago and things hadn't exactly improved since that day.

Watching now as Sam took a cautious bite of the sandwich, Dean felt like the world's biggest jerk. He took a steadying breath and rubbed at his chin, then ran a hand through his hair before saying, "You're right."

Sam lowered the sandwich, swallowed hard and asked, "About what?"

"We may as well stay. Day's half over and you look greener than the grass." Dean grimaced, regretting his words when Sam went yet another shade greener and pressed his hand to his mouth. Considering that it might be wise to grab a wastebasket, Dean breathed a bit easier when Sam lowered his hand and took a few slow breaths. Dean went on, "You're not going to be able to sit in the car right now and we can do some research here as well as anywhere."

"If you think we should go, let's go," Sam said, looking up at him. "I'm fine. I don't want to hold us up any longer. I'm fine."

"Yeah," Dean said as Sam lunged for the wastebasket and threw up the bite of sandwich. "You're fine."

* * *

There were plenty of things more embarrassing than puking in front of your big brother. And Sam had done most, if not all, of them. Several of them on more than one occasion. Regardless, it didn't make it any less embarrassing to be throwing up into a wastebasket now especially when it took Dean holding him by the shoulders to keep him from face planting into the mess. It was ridiculous. He'd only taken one bite of the sandwich.

"You gotta stop this, man," Dean said, tightening his grip as Sam jerked forward and tried to puke up his liver. "You need to take a breath."

Sam felt like his eyeballs were going to squeeze out of his head and the pain in his chest from the broken rib stabbed through him with every attempted breath he took. The dry heaves would not stop despite the fact that he had nothing left to throw up. He'd already thrown up all the whiskey this morning so he knew that wasn't it. Thinking about it only made him retch even harder though, until he started to think that there was a good possibility he was going to pass out.

"Sam, calm down and breathe. Now." Dean smacked him lightly on the back.

Somehow it helped and Sam dragged in a desperate breath. He couldn't see anything but darkness and the headache couldn't possibly get any worse. He spit a few times into the wastebasket and continued to suck in uneven and half-panicked breaths.

"You done?" Dean asked. He was still holding onto Sam's shoulders and it was still a very good thing that he was.

Sam gagged, swallowed hard and thought about how good it would feel to be unconscious right about now.

"Ok. You're done." Dean's voice sounded muffled, but loud all the same.

He shifted his grip and Sam found himself leaning against the bed again, head spinning. Wrapping both arms around the fiery pain in his chest, Sam drew in shaky breaths until the darkness abated and he could see again. Dean's face was blurry in front of him, but Sam could tell he wasn't wearing his amused expression. He looked pissed.

And he sounded pissed when he said, "Still feelin' fine, I bet."

Sam glared at him. Dean rolled his eyes and pushed the wastebasket away. He got to his feet and left the room without another word. Sam couldn't find it in himself to care. He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the edge of the bed. Lying down sounded almost as good as being unconscious did, but he decided not moving would be even better.

He still wasn't moving when Dean reentered. It felt like he'd been gone a long time, but Sam hadn't checked the clock so maybe it had been only a few minutes. Opening his eyes, Sam watched as Dean picked up the discarded water bottle. Dean pushed it toward him and Sam sighed, but took it. He took a small sip, watching as Dean set three orange pill bottles on the nightstand. He'd been ignoring their existence and he didn't appreciate his brother bringing them from the bathroom. Closing his eyes again, he listened to the sound of pills being shaken out of one of the bottles.

"Here." Dean nudged him not so gently in the hip with his foot. Sam caught sight of Dean's outstretched hand and the little white pill he was holding.

"No."

"You're taking it," Dean cut him off before he could say anything else. "This is not a discussion or a negotiation. This is me telling you that you're going to take this damned pill."

"I'm not taking it." Sam had meant to yell. But the words were nowhere near as loud as he had intended. He wished he could shove Dean out the door to make his point very clear to his dense brother. "Leave me alone."

"I'm not leaving."

Sam didn't have the energy required to continue to fight. Looking up at Dean again, he could see the tension, the anger, the worry written all over his face. Dean crouched down next to him and held the pill out again. Considering how intense the headache was, Sam almost hoped it was the strongest painkiller known to man. Something that would knock him out for a day or a month. Something that would cure the headache and maybe even help him forget everything he'd gone through. The little white pill in Dean's hand didn't look that impressive.

"What is it?" he asked in resignation, trying to keep his eyes open.

"It's for the nausea. Went and checked with Arla about your meds and she said this one might help."

"I don't want it."

Dean's smile was unexpected as he said, "Yeah, I'm not sure anyone in all of Indiana missed that memo."

Sam couldn't quite smile, but he felt a little less defensive.

"I get that you don't want to take any pills," Dean's voice was soft; had lost the edge of anger from earlier. "I can sort of even understand why. But you're gonna take this one right now." Dean held up a hand to stop his protest before Sam could even open his mouth. He continued, "You're gonna take it because I'll be damned if I sit around and let you suffer just because you feel like you should."

All the words he wanted to say were on the tip of his tongue and he came so close to saying them. Sam wanted to tell Dean why he didn't want to take the pills. Why he'd needed to drink the whiskey last night and why he was afraid to close his eyes in sleep. But then he thought about Dean's drinking and how they needed to focus on the job and stopping the leviathans and he just couldn't.

A hand waved in front of his face. Dean said, "Quit with the pensive introspection. You got something to say, say it."

"You suck."

"Yeah I know." Dean's grin was brief and half-hearted but it was there. He dropped the pill into Sam's hand and said, "Look, you don't have to take all the pills all the time. I'm just asking that you try to take them when you need them so you can get better, ok? You need to eat and you need to deal with this."

A spike of anger ran through him and Sam fisted his hand around the pill, shooting Dean a glare, his voice raising with every word he spoke, "I _am_ dealing with this. Every single minute of every single day I'm dealing with it."

He watched as Dean's eyes widened slightly. Sam didn't want to be saying this, saying _any_ of it. Feeling himself shaking, Sam couldn't stop the words. "I'm dealing with it even though I can't even sit here without the radio on because I can _still_ hear his voice in the back of my head."

Dean remained silent, so many emotions flashing through his tired eyes that Sam couldn't keep track of them. He tried to calm down and regain some control. This was exactly why he didn't want to talk about it. With anyone. If he started to let it out, everything, every ugly, wretched, horrible thing would come out and he didn't want to unleash that much crap on anyone.

Opening his hand, Sam looked at the pill again. He hated it when his voice broke as he said quietly, "So stop telling me to deal with it."

He didn't know if the pill would help; figured it probably wouldn't, actually. But he took it anyway because he knew he needed it. Well, and also because his brother would probably shove it straight down his throat if he didn't. The pill hit his stomach like a ten pound weight and Sam fought to keep it down. He could feel Dean's steady gaze and once he was sure, mostly, that the pill wasn't coming back up, he returned his gaze.

"Lay down and get some rest," Dean instructed, tapping him on the shoulder, then leaving his hand there for a bit longer than necessary.

"I'm fine right here," Sam countered. He already felt like his insides were about to jump outside again and moving sounded like a good way to make that a reality. This conversation needed to be over.

Dean was studying him like a problem he couldn't solve, but relented. "I guess maybe moving isn't a great idea right now, huh?"

Sam's eyes slid closed and he didn't bother to verbalize his agreement.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Chapter 22 will probably be up by midweek or so. :)**


	22. Like a bull chasing the matador

**Hello! Hope this wasn't too long to wait. :D This whole getting up at 4 am thing is so good for my writing productivity. Chapter 23 is soon to follow. I'm hoping for Saturday if things go well.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 22: Like a bull chasing the matador**_

When he woke up, his face was mashed against the carpet. Forcing his eyes open, Sam struggled to make out the shape of something on the floor there in front of his face. He closed his eyes again, not sure it was worth it to try to wake up enough to determine what it was.

Slowly taking inventory, he realized there was a blanket over him and decided he was losing his skill as a hunter if people could continually go around dropping blankets over him without him noticing. He drew a heavy hand up to rub his eyes and tried again to see what was in front of him. The light was still on so, once he could focus, it wasn't difficult to read the note that was perched on top of the sandwich.

 _EAT ME!_

He smiled at the overabundance of exclamation points and the exuberant arrows that pointed down toward the sandwich as if he could have been confused as to what he was supposed to eat.

For being four years older, sometimes Dean acted like he was four years old.

Pushing himself upright took a lot of effort and Sam considered it a great success when he was able to lean back against the bed without throwing up or passing out. Slumped there, breathing unevenly, he could tell some of the nausea had died down. He didn't feel good, but he didn't feel as bad so maybe the pill had helped. The sleep hadn't done much for the headache, but at least it didn't feel like his head was going to explode in the next five minutes.

He sat still until his head stopped spinning. Picking up the bottle of water next to the plate, he took a drink and discovered how thirsty he was. Staring at the sandwich for a moment, Sam decided to give it a try and surprised himself by eating the entire thing.

Settling back against the bed, he yawned and took a peek at the clock. It was just after four but he had no idea what time it had been when he'd fallen asleep. He didn't even remember falling asleep; all he remembered was the pain. Glancing around the room, he saw that it was still a mess - exactly the way he'd left it earlier. His heart sank and he pressed a hand to his eyes. He'd meant to have everything taken care of before Dean was released from the hospital. Packed and sitting by the door so they could get on the road again because he knew Dean didn't way to stay.

Wondering where Dean was now, Sam knew he should hurry up and get back to the packing. Before he could begin, though, he turned at the sound of a congested sniff and found Dean on the bed, propped up with the pillows against the headboard, sound asleep. A paperback novel rested at his side and Sam considered the possibility that he might be hallucinating again. Not that Dean didn't read; he actually read a lot more than he would ever admit. It just seemed so strange to see him taking a nap. Of course, if he'd taken a few minutes here and there all along to allow himself the rest he needed, he probably wouldn't have wound up so sick in the first place.

Sometimes Sam thought it was possible Dean was more stubborn than their dad had been.

He considered his options. Getting up sounded good because he'd been spending enough time on the floor lately that he could happily never sit on it again. However, getting up meant potentially waking his brother who clearly needed all the sleep he could get. Besides, if he got up what was there to do? Repacking their gear would also wake Dean up and leaving the room meant facing the Penders which he wasn't quite ready to do yet.

In the end, the decision was made for him when an unfortunate sneeze woke Dean up and left him holding his stomach in pain while he cursed enthusiastically.

"Bless you," Sam said politely, smiling when Dean shot him a dirty look.

His brother groaned dramatically and said, "Don't bless me; kill me. Damn it, I hate colds."

Sam rolled his eyes, then turned around and let his head rest back against the bed. Staring at the ceiling, he said, "Don't be such a baby about a runny nose. You were puking blood. If you can survive that, I think you can survive the common cold."

"My nose isn't running," Dean griped, ignoring everything else Sam had said, "it's completely plugged."

Closing his eyes, Sam listened to Dean shifting on the bed and heard him sneeze a couple more times but refrained from offering any blessings this time. He felt a not quite gentle tap on his left shoulder and glanced over to see Dean holding the book out to him. Sam didn't take it but asked, "Good book?"

"The doctor with the limp did it," Dean said, voice thick with congestion. "Good mystery, lots of action. You should read it."

Dean's spoiler didn't even phase Sam. Dean had helpfully spoiled so many things over the years that Sam had stopped caring around the time Dean told him about Luke Skywalker's true parentage. Sam had been young enough at the time that he hadn't pictured his own father in the role of Darth Vader; that came a few years later when hunting began to destroy his hopes for normal.

The book landed on his lap and he glanced at the cover before setting it aside. It was by one of his favorite authors and he'd actually been waiting for a long time to read it. Three years in fact. A few things like the apocalypse, going to hell, walking around soulless and then going crazy had interrupted his reading list. Maybe he would read it, maybe he wouldn't. At the moment, it didn't interest him.

There were more pressing issues at hand.

Sam took a deep breath and stared at the wall as he asked, "What are we gonna do about Cas?"

"Nothing." Dean's response was even faster than Sam had expected but the answer was one or two profanities short of what he'd anticipated. "We're on a vacation. Isn't that what you wanted? Take it easy for awhile?"

He didn't even have to look at Dean to know he'd just put air quotes around that last part. It ticked him off when Dean did that; especially when it was his own words that were being thrown back at him. _Which is why he does it, of course,_ Sam shook his head. Dean was deflecting, attempting to get around the topic he didn't want to discuss. Sam didn't exactly want to discuss it either, truth be told, but they needed to.

So he pressed on, knowing he was poking a hornet's nest and preparing himself to get stung. _Many times_. "Dean we just can't..."

"Like hell we can't!" Dean's voice was congested and rough but the sheer fury came through loud and clear. "He got what he deserved."

"Nobody deserves what he's going through," Sam said quietly even though he wasn't sure he believed it.

Instead of more shouting, like he'd expected, Dean was silent for a long time before he asked, "You know that means you didn't deserve it either, right?"

Sam didn't answer.

He wasn't all the way there yet, but he was getting to the place where, logically, he could accept that the entire shebang-Lilith, Lucifer, the end of the world, and everything it all led to including winding up soulless and then hallucinating till he went crazy-had been the result of Ruby's clever manipulation and not entirely a disaster of his own making. He'd been so grief stricken by Dean's death and his own inability to prevent it that sane thought had gone straight out the window. It didn't absolve him of his part in all of it, but looking back at it from this side, he at least had some perspective on the issue.

Which is why he couldn't let Cas sit and rot.

"We need to find a-" Sam tried again.

"A what? A way to fix him? He barely fixed _you_ and look what it did to him." Dean wasn't yelling, but he was getting there. "He _did_ this to you and he tried to take over the freakin' world!"

Sam felt like they were going nowhere fast. As usual. He tried to control his own temper as he said, "It was a mistake, Dean. A stupid, terrible, ill-advised mistake, yes, but he thought he was doing the right thing. I thought _I_ was doing the right thing with Ruby and look where that landed us."

Dean sneezed, then huffed irritably, "What's your point?"

"What do you think my point is?" Sam reached his limit. He pushed himself up from the floor with some difficulty, but didn't fall on his face. Looking at Dean, he said, "We've screwed up plenty. We can't just leave him there. He's our friend."

"Was." Dean's eyes were cold. " _Was_ our friend."

"You know what? Never mind." Sam shook his head. No point in continuing a futile argument.

"Glad we agree."

Tightening his jaw, Sam didn't bother to counter that because it would just start another round of the argument and he didn't feel up to continuing. He needed to do something to distract

himself from...everything. He started to gather the dirty laundry. Dean was busy sneezing, coughing and cursing so a few minutes passed without conversation or argument. Sam felt almost calm again. And then Dean had to open his mouth.

"What'd you do with the rest of the whiskey?" His voice was casual, but Sam could hear the disguised want. The _need_.

Sam turned to look at Dean and didn't like what he saw. Dean's eyes were bloodshot and dark with more than just the shadows that spoke of lack of sleep and illness. He was trying to hide it, but Sam could see the desperation and fear in his eyes. Dean needed a drink so much that he was actually afraid of not getting it.

And that terrified Sam.

He had no clue what had happened to the bottle. He was willing to bet that Arla had pitched it by now; he _hoped_ she'd pitched it. Shrugging, he said, "I didn't do anything with it."

"You shouldn't have done anything with it to start with. It wasn't yours to take," Dean snapped, and if looks could kill, Sam knew he'd be so dead right now that even a crossroads demon or Death himself couldn't bring him back.

Deciding the conversation was going nowhere but toward a childish shouting match of _you took my stuff!_ and _well you shouldn't be drinking anyway!_ , Sam chose to walk away. He picked up all the laundry and was proud of himself for making it out the door and around the corner out of sight before he leaned heavily against the wall and tried to catch his breath. Not wanting to hang around and have to engage in round two with his brother, Sam pushed himself to head downstairs.

* * *

She found him sitting on the bottom step, head hanging and arms wrapped around a huge pile of laundry. He looked dejected and miserable, but the sight of all that laundry made her smile. Ever since Dean had taken the sandwich up to his brother, she hadn't heard a peep from either of them. Arla had let them be on their own for over an hour before she'd gone upstairs to check. The bedroom door had been open, the light and radio on, but they'd both been sound asleep; Sam on the floor under a blanket and Dean snoring on the bed with a book in his hand.

Leaving them alone after that, Arla had joined Tommy out on the back porch to work on a puzzle. She'd just slipped in to grab something to drink when she caught sight of Sam. Beverages, and the puzzle, would have to wait.

Arla walked over, not trying to be overly quiet. Last thing she wanted was to startle him. Once she had crossed into the living room, he glanced up. He wasn't looking any better than he had since he'd arrived at their house and she told herself the reason he looked _worse_ was because he had a hangover on top of the rest of it.

"Hey, Sam," Arla said, pausing several steps away from him. "Need to run some laundry?"

He nodded.

"I can take care of it for you."

"No," he said immediately, then his pale face went a little pink. "Thank you, but I can do it."

Arla wanted to march over and take the laundry away from him and tell him not to be silly and to go lay down on the couch. But this was about more than his ability to do the laundry. He _needed_ to do the laundry. Needed to be doing something, anything. The pent up tension and energy she was used to seeing in Dean, she saw in Sam right now.

He needed a distraction and he needed to be able to control something. Everything else in his life was out of control, Arla knew. He hadn't been given a lot of choices in any thing that had been happening. If he needed to do the laundry, she was going to give him that.

So she nodded and said, "I'll show you to the laundry room. We've got plenty of laundry soap and softener."

Sam frowned and looked down at the pile of clothes he was hugging as if he'd just realized he was missing something. He looked up at her again and said, "Thanks. We, uh, usually we just use, you know, the stuff we can get at the laundromat. We don't really carry that kind of stuff around with us."

"No problem." Arla smiled, even though she felt a pang of sadness thinking about all the kinds of things they didn't carry around with them because they seemed to live in a car or motel rooms. She really, _really_ wanted to ask if they had someplace to call home, but she didn't dare.

She waited for him to drag himself to his feet and fought the urge to go help him up. It was obvious that moving still hurt him and, again, she wanted to take the pile of laundry away because that couldn't possibly help with his ribs. But he set his jaw in determination and Arla knew better than to offer. Instead, she led the way to the laundry room without comment.

Turning on the light, Arla said, "Here you go. Soap and softener on top of the dryer there."

He nodded, heading straight for the washing machine and dropping everything he'd been carrying, save one stray sock that had fallen out of his arm, into it. Arla bit her lip to hide her smile while she cringed inwardly. That was more than one load. More than two. And he was shoving it all in at once. If she hadn't been worried that the machine would break from the strain, she'd have left him to it.

Opening her mouth to interrupt him, she held her tongue when he paused, hands braced on the washer. She waited for a few seconds, then chanced a step closer. He was staring down at the laundry, eyes glassy and bright. Wishing she knew what he was thinking, but doubting he would open up to her, Arla decided to at least attempt to get him to let her take over the laundry.

"Sam? How about I finish that up for you?" Arla asked softly, stepping closer, careful not to crowd him.

He didn't respond for a long time, then nodded slowly. Still staring down at the open washer, Sam said, "He turned all my stuff pink once."

Arla blinked in surprise at the unexpected comment, then smiled and asked, "Dean?"

"Yeah." Sam huffed a short laugh and said, "He wasn't even a kid when he did it. We'd been doing laundry all our life but he didn't notice this new red shirt of Dad's was under all the other stuff. He was doing my laundry because I had strep so I couldn't even be mad at him about it."

She laughed, wondering where this was coming from, and he gave her a tiny smile, then went back to staring at the laundry. He went on, "Dad laughed, but Dean felt so bad about it, he didn't tease me about having to wear pink underwear for most of eighth grade. We didn't have the money to buy anything else right then."

It was the most she'd heard him say since they'd left the hospital. Despite the humorous anecdote, Arla could see the tension that was running just under the surface. He turned to her suddenly and looked so desperate she was afraid; not for herself, but for him.

"Can you talk to him?" Sam asked, left hand still holding onto the machine.

"Talk to him? About what?"

"I don't know how to get through to him anymore." Sam's voice shook. "He's messed up right now and I've only been making it worse and then with Cas and then Bobby and the whole thing with the dev-" he broke off like he'd been punched and he looked so skittish she expected him to run, but he went on, "Can you talk to him?"

"Sam," Arla started, trying to sort the situation and her thoughts out, "I'm not sure anything I say-"

"It might."

He looked so hopeful that it staggered her. Arla hadn't expected him to have this kind of faith in her. She had no idea what to say to Dean or how she was supposed to help him when she didn't even understand what had happened. But she nodded anyway because she could _talk_ to Dean; whether he'd listen was another story. Sam leaned more heavily against the washing machine like she'd just taken a burden off his shoulders.

Arla put the rest of it aside for the moment and said, "I'll take care of the laundry, Sam, and I'll talk to Dean. But right now, you need to get off your feet."

Sam didn't argue with her. He pushed away from the washer and headed for the door. Arla left the laundry for later. First order of business was to get him somewhere safe and comfortable. This was one of the first chances he'd allowed her to get near enough to him to try to help and she wasn't going to miss her opportunity.

She walked down the hall next to him and chanced gripping his arm when he slowed down and leaned against the wall. He didn't flinch or brush her off. Once he was steady, they started walking again and she kept her hand where it was.

"How does the couch sound?" Arla asked, already thinking about finding him something to drink and trying to tempt him with some food.

He didn't comment, but when she looked up at him, she saw that he was looking outside. Thinking about Tommy and his puzzle out on the porch, Arla decided that might be exactly what Sam needed. A nice distraction from the worry and a bit less of a strain than trying to deal with laundry.

So she guided him to the door and said, "Tommy could use some help out there. The man loves his thousand piece puzzles but I prefer a few hundred less pieces than that."

Sam didn't comment, but went where she led him. Tommy was holding the door open by the time they reached it and Arla could see he'd already pulled up another chair to the table.

"Oh good," Tommy smiled, "reinforcements!"

Arla made sure Sam was settled in the chair before heading to the kitchen. She could hear Tommy keeping up a friendly, easy-going conversation and knew they would be fine. Ten minutes later, they both had a glass of water beside them along with a couple different snacks. Sam was concentrating on the puzzle, but Arla lingered long enough to see him reach out for a cookie without ever looking away from the puzzle.

Exchanging a smile with Tommy, she headed back for the laundry room to dig out all three loads from her washing machine.

* * *

By the time Dean finished cleaning the guns, he wasn't seeing red any longer, but he wouldn't say he was in a good mood. He could have cleaned the guns in less than half the time it actually took, but an hour of peace and quiet had been what he needed after the argument. Repacking the guns and the rest of his gear that Sam had decided to sprawl across the floor, Dean

regretted not buying two bottles of whiskey. He found Bobby's flask but he'd drained it the other night and never had the chance to refill it.

It physically hurt to look at it so he shoved it deep into his bag, knowing that he'd be pulling it out as soon as he had some liquor to put in it. Rubbing his forehead, Dean started hunting for something for the headache. He wondered if Arla might have a decongestant in her medicine cabinet because she seemed like the sort of woman who would both have a medicine cabinet and keep it stocked. The question was, did he feel like it was worth the effort to go downstairs and ask?

Considering he could no longer breathe out of one side of his nose despite the fact that it was now running like crazy, he decided it wouldn't be a bad idea. Even having to face his brother, someone he'd rather avoid at this point, seemed like a decent tradeoff for getting some relief from the congestion and headache. Standing up with a groan, Dean grabbed the kleenex box from the desk and headed downstairs.

He sneezed halfway down and had to hold onto the rail until he regained his balance. Cursing and huffing, he made it downstairs without his head exploding or falling on his face.

Peering around, he didn't see anyone and considered hunting through the kitchen for a drink. But then he caught sight of everyone sitting outside on the back porch and changed his mind.

Instead of joining them, he veered toward the living room and settled himself on the couch. The remote was on the coffee table and he picked it up and started channel hopping until he came across something with explosions and a car chase.

Dropping the remote onto the arm of the couch, Dean sneezed into his sleeve even though he had a box of tissues on his lap, then let his head hit the back of the couch with a groan. It wasn't enough that the world had fallen apart around them? That he had a bleeding hole in his stomach? He had to get a cold on top? So unfair.

He yanked a tissue out of the box when his nose started running again. By the time he'd taken care of this round of snot, he had a small mountain of pale yellow tissue balls rising up on the cushion next to him. Dean felt a flush of embarrassment heat up his cheeks as he looked over his shoulder. He hoped Arla wasn't watching. Pushing the pile onto the floor, he knew polite society probably didn't pile their snot rags on the upholstery.

Clean up accomplished, Dean relaxed into the cushions again and forced himself to concentrate on the movie. If he could keep his attention on the over-the-top action in front of his eyes, then he could avoid thinking about everything else. And it worked...until the movie ended. As soon as the explosions stopped, his mind jumped back to the present. He didn't have a chance to get much thinking done, though, before heard footsteps and braced himself.

A glass of water was held in front of his face and something was tossed onto his lap. Dean took the glass of water quickly because he wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't end up wearing it if he didn't take it from Sam's shaking hand. Sam walked past him without a word and slouched into the armchair to the right of the couch. Looking down, Dean saw a couple pills in a wrapper. Taking a sip of the water, he picked them up. Sudafed.

Sparing a quick glance at Sam, he found him with one arm wrapped around his chest. He had his other elbow leaning on the arm of the chair, head resting in his hand, blank gaze staring through the television. Dean sighed and set the glass of water on the end table, careful to place it on a coaster. He tore into the package of pills and swallowed them with another drink of water. Rubbing his head, he could feel the pressure building even though his nose was leaking non-stopped.

He also felt overly warm and pressed the glass to his forehead, allowing his attention to return to the television again. It was another action movie. A good, plotless, worthless distraction. They spent the next hour sitting there, not saying a word. The movie was half over when Dean started noticing something that smelled like food. His nose was so plugged up that he was having trouble actually smelling anything, but he could smell enough to know whatever it was smelled amazing.

His stomach growled and he was hungry enough that it seemed worthwhile to get off his butt and investigate. One glance at Sam showed him that his brother had at some point fallen asleep. Legs sprawled out and taking up half the living room, Sam was slumped down in the chair and going to wake up with a stiff neck, but Dean left him alone. It wasn't ideal, of course, this new habit of sleeping at odd times during the day. Regardless, Sam needed the sleep and Dean wasn't going to be picky about how, or where, he got it.

So he walked out of the living room and headed for the kitchen. The dining room table was set for four and Arla smiled as he approached. She said, "Just in time. Feeling hungry?"

"Yes." Dean found that the smile came a bit easier this time.

"Good." Arla nodded, setting a bowl of mashed potatoes on the table. "Go ahead and have a seat. Tommy's grabbing the chicken."

Dean tried not to think about the last time he'd sat down at a dining room table and eaten a home-cooked meal because it had been with Lisa and Ben. His jaw tightened, but he sat down anyway, shoving that thought out of his mind. Arla poured water into the glasses on the table as Tommy joined them, placing the platter of chicken in the middle of the table.

Arla and Tommy exchanged a glance and Dean saw them looking toward the living room. Assuming they were trying to decide if Sam were coming or not, Dean said, "He's asleep."

"Well, we're not going to disturb his rest then." Arla nodded with another smile.

They sat down and began passing the food around and Dean guessed that everything on the table had been carefully chosen. Everything was simple, bland yet tasty, and easy on the stomach. Which was good since he still didn't feel good and he knew that, on the off chance that Sam would decide to join them, he wouldn't be likely to eat anything too exciting.

It surprised him when Sam did show up after only a few minutes. Dean didn't comment and Sam didn't say anything. Arla smiled in welcome and dished up a conservative serving of food. Placing the plate in front of him, she took her seat and then Tommy started talking about the law enforcement conference he had just been to. The situation remained a bit awkward, but became less so as Tommy and Arla chatted like this was a normal evening for them.

As he ate, Dean started to pay more attention to what Tommy was saying and found that he was picking up some tips that would come in handy for their own work. Joining in the conversation, Dean relaxed and tried to ignore the fact that his brother wasn't saying a word. Deep down, it worried him. Sam was supposed to be the polite one. The one to chat with the civilians and do all the PR crap Dean hated.

But Sam wasn't talking and he was barely eating, although he was making an effort which eased a bit of Dean's concern. Since he still wasn't sure he could talk to his brother without it turning into another argument, Dean told himself it was best to ignore him altogether. So he did and the more he chatted with Tommy, the less it bothered him.

He was so engrossed in what Tommy was saying that he didn't even notice when Sam got up and left. Arla's concerned expression as she looked somewhere past him was what clued him into the empty chair to his left. Looking first at the chair and the half-eaten dinner, Dean turned around in time to see Sam heading upstairs. Sighing, he stared at his own plate, appetite gone.

"Dean?" Arla's hand was on his. He met her eyes and she smiled and said, "It's ok. It's a step in the right direction."

He knew she was right but it didn't make him feel better about the situation. Forcing a few more bites down, Dean noticed a few pills had appeared on the napkin in front of him. He looked at Arla and raised an eyebrow.

"Antibiotics and the medication for your stomach."

There was no way he was getting out of taking them, Dean could see it in her eyes. So he took the handful in one go and drained the cup of water. The desire for something stronger bubbled up again, but he didn't dare ask about the missing bottle of whiskey. From the look in her eyes, he had a feeling Arla knew exactly what he was thinking.

Instead of attempting a battle he knew he'd never win, he thanked her for the meal, then excused himself and headed upstairs. It was on the early side to be going to bed, but he was tired enough not to care. Before he'd come down earlier he'd separated his gear from Sam's and taken up residence in the second bedroom. Climbing the stairs, he hoped he could get there without running into his brother. He wasn't in the mood to be chastised further about his drinking or about Cas.

Thankfully, when he got upstairs, Sam's door was closed. Dean headed for the bathroom, relieved he was going to avoid the lecture. Even so, by the time he was ready for bed, the relief was gone and all he felt was guilt. The light was still on in his brother's room - he could see it shining along the crack beneath the door - so he knocked, ready to at least try and make peace. Getting no response, he almost walked away.

But then he thought about their earlier conversation. He'd told Sam to deal with it and Sam had told him he _was_ dealing with it. What little he'd admitted had been like the trailer to a movie; hinting at the plot, at everything that would happen, but not really giving anything away. But it was everything Sam _hadn't_ said that had him opening the door without being invited.

Prepared to be shouted at for breach of privacy, Dean stepped into the room.

Sam didn't shout at him.

The overhead light and the radio were both on, but Sam was sound asleep flat on his back on the bed. He hadn't even changed out of his clothes, Dean noticed with a small smile. Considering how difficult to damn near impossible it had been for Sam to get any sleep in the past few months, it was amusing to see him falling asleep at the drop of a hat now.

Except it really wasn't all that amusing when he thought about the reasons behind the insomnia in the first place. Dean kept the door partially opened as he left. The chances that Sam was going to manage to sleep through the night seemed laughable and Dean wished Arla had given Sam his own pile of pills at dinner. Maybe he would take something if Arla was the one telling him to. Dean could see the three pill bottles were still exactly where he'd left them earlier and he knew Sam hadn't touched them.

Dean yawned, then sneezed as he entered the other bedroom. Leaving his door wide open, he pulled back the covers and flopped into bed.

* * *

 _Cas killed his brother._

 _And stood there smiling about it._

 _Looking down at his dead brother, he felt his own heart bleeding. His brother's body was slack in his arms growing cold and pale with death while Cas laughed._

 _Cas faded away and the devil took his place with a grin as he sang, "You ain't seen nothin yet."_

 _A snap of the devil's fingers and then Bobby was falling in front of him, eyes blank as blood poured out of the bullet hole in his head. Dick Roman stood behind him, gun smoking. He wore the same mocking smile that the devil and Cas had worn._

 _They all faded away until he was left looking at the broken remains of his family; his brother in his arms and the man who had become their father on the ground in front of him._

 _His everything._

 _His life._

 _And that was when Dean lifted his gun and ended his own pain._

Dean woke up to a quiet, dark room and hot tears running down his face. He was panting like he'd been running for his life. Throwing the covers off, he pushed himself upright. Resting his elbows on his knees, he scrubbed at his face and tried to calm his racing heart.

"Just a dream," he mumbled to himself in a voice that was thick and raw.

He looked at the clock. A little after one in the morning. Feeling chilled, Dean was about to pull the covers back on when he realized it seemed bright for one in the morning. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he looked out the open door and saw his brother's bedroom wide open; light from the overhead fixture flooding into the hall. Standing up, he hurried to the other room only to find it empty. The bathroom was empty as well and Dean felt a momentary flash of sheer panic remembering another night when he'd awakened only to find that he was missing one little brother. Swearing under his breath, Dean went back to his room to yank on his shoes then he rushed downstairs.

A light was on in the kitchen and he found Arla sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping from a mug and looking out the window. She turned around as he approached and smiled, waving him over. Dean frowned, looking around for Sam. He caught sight a fire burning and two dark forms standing down by the lake. Redirecting his steps, he was ready to go outside until a hand caught his arm.

"Dean, come sit down with me," Arla's tone was gentle but firm.

He stopped where he stood and looked down at her, then back out the window.

"Tommy's out there with him. Come sit down."

Fighting every instinct in him, Dean tore his eyes from the window and allowed her to guide him to a chair. Once seated, he asked, "What happened?"

Arla reached for the tea kettle and said, "We heard him go outside so Tommy went with him."

"How long?" Dean looked out the window again although it was too dark to really see anything.

"They've been out there for about twenty minutes now," Arla said, pouring water into a second mug. She added a tea bag, honey and lemon and Dean didn't know why he was sitting here watching her when he needed to be outside. He started to move again, but she caught his hand and shook her head. "Stay here."

Anger rose in his chest and he said, "I'm not staying here when he's out there and-"

"You _are_ staying here because the last thing you need is to go out in the chilly night air with a fever." Arla set the mug in front of him and her eyes were like steel. "Sam's fine. Tommy's with him."

 _I should be the one with him,_ Dean thought to himself, ignoring the mug and looking back out the window again.

"It's ok for you not to be the only one who can help him."

He snapped his gaze back to her, offended and hurt by her comment. Opening his mouth to tell her to mind her own business, instead he sneezed hard enough that it felt like he was being stabbed in the stomach. Head pounding, he sneezed again into his sleeve and this time it didn't quite feel like he was going to die. Keeping one hand pressed to his stomach, he lifted his head and looked at Arla.

Her smile was sad and her eyes were too, as she said, "It's ok for you not to be the only one who can help yourself, too."

Averting his eyes, Dean took a tentative sip from the mug. Doctored up tea. Not anything he was remotely interested in, but he couldn't deny it didn't feel good on his throat.

"He's worried about you," Arla said, hands wrapped around her mug as she studied him.

"I'm fine." Dean set the mug down on the counter with enough force that some of the tea splashed his hand. He didn't even notice the heat as he repeated, "I don't know why everyone keeps acting like I'm not fine! _I'm_ not the one who had a flippin' psychotic meltdown and wound up committed. So yeah, maybe I'm a bit stressed at the moment, but I'm fine."

If Arla was shocked by his outburst, she didn't show it. She looked as angry as he felt, though, when she said, "You are not fine, Dean Winchester. You aren't even close to being fine and you know it."

"You have no idea-"

"I _do_ have an idea," she cut him off, leaning forward and tapping a finger on the table. "I'm not a fool and even a fool would be able to see that you aren't ok. You're bottling it all up-"

"What else am I supposed to do?" He lowered his voice, but the intensity didn't change. "My brother's been falling to pieces for months and it looks like the thing that was supposed to fix him might have done more harm than good. Roman's still out there trying to take over the world and we've been side-lined from that fight too long already. I don't really have time to do anything _but_ bottle it up. Sam needs help-"

"Yes, he does," Arla interrupted him again. "I'd say he needs professional help and he needs it sooner rather than later. He should _already_ be getting it."

Dean's mouth went dry hearing it laid out so clinically. Arla wasn't sugar-coating anything. She went on, "We both know that he isn't doing well even if he's trying his hardest to hang on and pull himself together. He feels like he's adding to your burdens, Dean."

"Well, that's just stupid." Dean shook his head, fighting back the need to sneeze. "He tell you that?"

"Not in those words, but yes. He's internalizing all of this just like you are and it's not doing either of you any good. Both of you are in a tailspin right now and these burdens you're each trying to carry on your own? They're going to kill you. They're killing Sam right now."

Dean narrowed his eyes and asked, "What're you talking about? He's getting better."

"Is he?"

"Yeah," Dean said although he couldn't get any conviction behind the words.

Arla shook her head. "He's trying, I'll give you that, but-"

"Well, what more do you want from him?" Dean snapped at her.

"-he's depressed," Arla said simply, finishing her statement that he'd interrupted.

Dean choked on his next words.

"And I think you are too, not that you'll ever admit it." Arla set her mug aside as she stole a quick glance out the window before turning back to him. "I know you've lost people close to you; know that you're feeling very alone right now. What I don't know is exactly what you two have been through, because neither one of you will tell me. Which is fine. You don't have to tell me. I just wish you'd stop trying to be so damned strong for each other because all you're doing is hurting yourselves in the process."

"So what?" Dean asked, hands tightening into fists on the counter as he attempted to keep his voice down. "You want me to talk to a shrink? You want _him_ to talk to a shrink? Is that it? Think this is something we can discuss with a psychologist and not land behind the fence on the funny farm? Because last time one of us actually did that, he landed in a locked unit, drugged to his eyeballs thinking he was never going to get out. He thought he was going to die there."

 _And so did I._

Arla remained silent, her eyes tearing up just a bit.

Dean's voice cracked when he went on, fully aware he was losing control. "I don't want to talk about it and neither does he because talking about it doesn't fix anything. Doesn't bring Bobby back or erase what Cas did to us. Talking is pointless."

He stood up, already having said much more than he'd intended to. Pausing, he looked at the floor and said softly, "I know you're trying to help, but there's nothing you can do this time. I'm sorry you ran into me in that parking lot. You didn't deserve any of this."

"Dean-"

He ignored her and went upstairs without looking back.

* * *

 **:( I promise it will get better. If they weren't both so stubborn, it wouldn't be taking this long lol. ;) Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Have a great day!**


	23. When the night winds are driving on

**Here's a little something to hopefully make your Monday more bearable. I can't believe this Thursday is the beginning of S12! At last! :D**

 _ **Chapter 23:**_ _ **When the night winds are driving on**_

Sam had been standing by the edge of the lake long enough that he'd begun to feel chilled despite the jacket he wore. He had no intention of going back inside the house though. Sorting through the latest nightmare that had awakened him was something he needed to do on his own. No one could help with this.

Despite his desire for privacy, movement somewhere behind him told him that he was no longer alone. Turning around, he prepared himself to deal with his brother, but Dean wasn't the one crouched down and striking a match over the firepit. A little tension eased out of his shoulders when he realized he hadn't disturbed his brother's sleep after all. The soothing sound of the waves behind him drew his attention back to the beach and he wanted to walk down the shoreline and get as far away as possible.

Tommy stood up, meeting his eyes. Sam turned his back to him and his gaze drifted to the water. He wanted to be alone, why couldn't anyone seem to accept that? Not interested in having a conversation with Tommy, he focused on the scene ahead. The sky was filled with stars and he thought about all the times he'd sat out under the stars with Dean; whether for the pure enjoyment of it or because they were sleeping in the car due to lack of funds.

He wished there were a way to return to those simpler times. And then he shook his head. When had things been simple exactly? He wasn't sure but, in retrospect, he figured that things _had_ been simpler back when they were hunting monsters and not trying to save the world or fighting against angels and demons and a destiny that someone else had decided was theirs.

The longer he stood there thinking about the past, the colder he became. Shivering suddenly, he wrapped his arms around himself. He'd never been as sensitive to the cold as he was now after being in the cage. Thinking about the cold in that context doubled his shivers and tripled the fear he still felt in his heart.

The lakeshore no longer seemed peaceful. No longer seemed safe. Backing away in a hurry, his unsteady feet stumbled in the sand and he would have gone down if not for a strong hand that caught his left arm and hauled him upright. The contact was too much under the circumstances and all he could think of was fighting off the threat.

Yanking his arm free, he pushed away from Tommy and searched for an escape.

"Sam, stop," Tommy's voice was firm, yet calm. "You're freezing and you need to sit down."

Agreeing with the first point, Sam nevertheless took a step away from Tommy. Breathing like he'd just run a mile, he knew Tommy was right about the second point, too. So he gave up and allowed Tommy to lead the way back to the fire pit and the two chairs. Dropping into one of the chairs, Sam tried to decide if the cold or the flames of the fire reminded him more of the cage.

It was a stupid line of thought and one he regretted pursuing when the images and memories began to assault him. He curled forward in the seat with his hands pressed against his pounding head. Closing his eyes didn't block out the memories, it only made them more overwhelming.

He forced his eyes open, wishing he could melt into the ground or simply cease to exist. As if his life hadn't already been embarrassing enough, now he was losing it in front of a stranger. _Again._ Which wasn't entirely fair. Arla and Tommy earned the right to be called friends instead of strangers a long time ago. It still didn't make it any less embarrassing to be freaking out in front of him now.

Swallowing hard, he pressed his right hand against his left in a gesture so familiar it was comforting even if it was pointless now. There were no more hallucinations. Memories were all that remained.

Tommy was settled in his chair and, for a few moments, the only sound was that of the crackling fire. Sam found it a little easier to look at the fire and the warmth began to sink in to push the chill away as he straightened. There was no way to fully relax because he was anticipating a conversation or at least an attempt to let him know it was ok to talk about it.

But he didn't want to talk about _it_. Why did no one understand that? Why was everyone so insistent that he talk? The doctors in the hospital, _both hospitals,_ had wanted him to talk. Dean wanted him to. Obviously Arla and Tommy were on board with that plan as well and it irritated him.

"I don't want to talk about it." The words were out of his mouth before he could catch himself. Sam shot Tommy a glance, feeling like an idiot.

Tommy wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the fire, but he said, "I know."

Not expecting the simplicity of that response, Sam focused his attention on the flames before him. He could get up and leave. Nothing was stopping him. Head back to the house and spend the rest of the night listening to the radio and staring at the ceiling. Or he could take a walk and never come back. He rested his head in his hand, telling himself the burn of tears in his eyes was from the smoke drifting above the fire.

There was no way he could walk away, as much as he wanted to disappear. For one thing, Dean would never stop looking for him. For another, he couldn't stand the thought of leaving his brother alone in the fight; he'd walked away enough. He wasn't leaving Dean again. Without Cas, without Bobby, Dean was barely hanging on. He'd been drinking too much even _before_ Bobby's death; Cas' betrayal had cut him deep. And now, with Bobby gone too...the only time he could remember Dean being this destroyed was when their dad had died. _And he didn't even drink like this back then._

That time _he'd_ been the one pressing Dean to talk and he hadn't understood then, but he did now. Talk was pointless. Leaning back, he stared at the stars until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

He was beyond tired.

Of course, his mind wouldn't shut up and it wasn't more than a few minutes before he woke from the half-daze he'd fallen into. Sam sat up straight with a gasp and an humiliatingly frantic glance around him.

Tommy was still sitting in the chair next to him, but he wasn't staring at him like he was insane. He wasn't even looking at him. His eyes were on the stars, as Sam's had been a few moments ago. Relaxing to a certain degree, Sam took slow breaths until his pounding heart slowed to a more normal rate.

"I've been there." Tommy's voice was soft; a degree above the quiet waters, yet so quiet the peace of the night was left undisturbed. "I know what it's like to have something tearing at you from the inside out; something you don't understand and can't control."

Sam forced himself to stay silent. To keep his eyes on the flames. He could almost look at the fire now and picture marshmallows and hot dogs roasting over the crackling flames instead of his own flesh. Shaking his head at the thought, he tried to focus on what Tommy was saying.

"I know what it's like for everyone around you to worry about you and try everything they know to fix you even when you have no clue how it could ever get better; how it could ever get fixed."

Sam didn't reply, but sank another inch into the chair. Exhaustion was as familiar now as breathing and he ached with it. He'd been so tired for so long that he couldn't remember the last time he _hadn't_ been bone-weary. He couldn't remember the last time his head didn't hurt.

For a good ten minutes or so, they fell silent again. Sam considered what Tommy had said; what he was offering him, then asked, "Did you ever talk about what you went through?"

"Eventually." Tommy's smile was sad, but understanding.

Sam looked away.

"Sometimes it helps to talk to someone and sometimes it doesn't. You're gonna have good days and bad days, Sam. The important thing is remembering you're not alone."

Sam _felt_ alone. Despite the fact that Dean was never far away, he felt alone and empty; like getting the devil out of his head had taken not only the crazy, but everything else with it. He thought about what Tommy was saying and the fact that the man had come outside in the middle of the night with him. For the second time.

It should have bothered him to have someone going out of his way for him like this. And it did, to a certain extent. The funny thing was that it didn't bother him as much as he would have expected it to. Tommy's presence was calming. Unobtrusive. Quietly supportive. Regardless, Sam didn't want him to feel like he needed to sit out there all night again.

"You can go back inside," Sam said softly, "I'm ok."

"No, you aren't."

And, yeah, maybe Tommy was right. He wasn't ok and they all knew it. The cold seeped into his skin despite the fire that others would call cheerful. It didn't seem cheerful to him; it looked angry and reminded him of nightmares and pain. Sam wanted to get away from it and get away from Tommy, but the only place to go was inside to a small room with a bright light and the radio on because he couldn't stand the quiet even though his head hurt and he longed for sleep.

Rubbing his eyes, he said, "You'd think, after not sleeping well for months and then not sleeping at all for a week, I'd be able to sleep now."

"What's keeping you from sleeping, Sam?" Tommy asked, and he didn't sound pushy; he sounded genuinely concerned. After a few seconds, when Sam didn't speak up, Tommy said, "You don't have to tell me, but I think you need to tell someone."

Sam shook his head, still staring into the flames.

"Not even your brother?"

"He already knows."

"Does he?"

"He knows enough." _He's been to hell. He doesn't need a recap._ Sam gripped the arm of the chair, "None of this has been easy on him."

"It hasn't been easy on you, either. And trying to ignore the problem, trying to keep it to yourself, isn't helping you get past it."

"I'm not ignoring it. I'm dealing with it and-"

"Are you, though?" Tommy turned and Sam could feel his gaze, but didn't look back at him. "You can't go on without sleep forever."

"I've got a good start." Sam's smile was bitter. "We need to get back out there. I need to do something, not sit here-"

"You're in no shape to get back to the hunt. You're going to get yourself killed."

Sam kept his mouth shut.

"Unless maybe that's your plan."

There was a certain appeal to the thought, Sam had to admit. It wouldn't be the worst way to go. And maybe Dean could accept it, handle it better than he had in the past, if it happened on a hunt. _Who am I kidding?_ Sam knew better; Dean wouldn't be able to handle it and, given his current mindset, he'd probably eat a bullet.

 _Or drink himself to death._

"Sam? Is that your plan?"

Sam forced himself to look at Tommy and was surprised to find more than a question in his eyes. He looked like he _knew._ Like he knew exactly what Sam was thinking. Frowning, Sam's thoughts drifted back over the past few days. Their conversations. Their interactions. He wasn't sure what had made Tommy ask these questions. What had he said or done that would even remotely...

"You saw the notebook, didn't you?" Sam asked, the words sounding strained and hoarse to his own ears as he realized it was the most likely reason for Tommy's question.

Tommy nodded, not looking away. He didn't apologize or make excuses. "It fell out of your backpack when I was gathering everything from the cabin."

 _He might have just picked it up. Put it in the backpack without…_ "You read it?"

"I did."

A pain centered in his chest tightened his breathing and he struggled to speak past the knot in his throat. "Does Arla know?"

"No." Tommy answered immediately and it was some sort of consolation hearing that she didn't know. "Does Dean?"

"No."

Tommy's eyebrows rose. "Why not?"

Sam struggled to breathe and think. His mind was reeling from discovering that Tommy had read those pages. He tried to remember exactly what he'd written, how much he'd revealed, and he broke out in a cold sweat that left him shivering again and leaning forward to get closer to the warmth of the fire. He should never have written any of it.

"Sam?" Tommy asked. "Why doesn't Dean know?"

"You shouldn't have read it." Sam didn't answer his question.

"Maybe not," he said, and there was a hint of something in is tone. _Discomfort? Fear?_ Tommy went on before Sam could puzzle it out. "Or maybe it was the best thing-"

"How is reading that the best thing?" Sam didn't know how to explain the notebook and what he'd written. He didn't want to think about Tommy having read the kind of darkness he'd scribbled out in that notebook. Thinking about Dean finding it and reading it had filled him with fear; knowing an outsider had seen it terrified him. "What good can come of reading it? It doesn't even matter now."

"Yes it does." Tommy rested his elbows on his knees and stared into the fire as he said, "Sam, you wrote it down. Intended for Dean to read it at some point. Just because whatever was causing the hallucinations is gone doesn't mean the trauma is gone. And I'm not convinced that you aren't still feeling the way you were when you wrote that letter."

"It's none of your business."

"Doesn't mean I'm not concerned."

Sam closed his eyes, wishing Tommy wasn't such a nice guy. He didn't know how to respond. Had no clue what the right thing to say would be in this situation; what he _should_ say. And suddenly he didn't care. Maybe he'd reached his limit. Maybe he'd finally exhausted all the resistance he possessed. Whatever it was, Sam couldn't fight it anymore.

So he admitted softly, "I have no idea how to get past this."

"That's step one."

Sam could hear the relief, the _smile_ in Tommy's voice. Opening his eyes, he looked over at Tommy and asked, "What's step two?"

"That's up to you, Sam. There's no guidebook for something like this."

Nodding, Sam fell silent again. It wasn't easy. None of this was easy. But maybe it was getting _easier._ He lost track of the time before something else occurred to him. He turned to Tommy. "After reading what I wrote, you must have questions about everything. Why aren't you asking me what happened?"

"Because that's not what's important." Tommy shrugged. "What happened is in the past. And it will always be there because you can't change the past. You can only decide if it _teaches_ you or _defines_ you. What is important is the future because you still have the opportunity to choose how you're going to live it."

The night still felt heavy with fear, but Sam would have been lying if he were to say he wasn't feeling a little better.

"I'm not going to pretend to understand what you two have gone through," Tommy interrupted the quiet, leaning forward and adding another log to the fire. "Whatever it was, whatever led you here to this moment, it did more than just make you both sick. It broke your trust in each other."

Sam frowned, confused by the change in direction of Tommy's conversation. He shook his head and said, "I trust him-"

"Do you?" Tommy interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes."

"I don't think you do."

His heart rate sped up and anger pushed away some of the fog and exhaustion as he said, "You're wrong. I always trust him and-"

"Then why aren't you trusting him with this?" Tommy asked mildly, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but he didn't have the chance.

"You're worried about him. And he's worried about you. But neither of you are trusting the other." Tommy went on, "You don't trust him to be able to handle everything you're going through and Dean doesn't know how to help you because you aren't giving him the chance."

Wanting to deny it, Sam remained silent. Because Tommy was right. Rubbing his eyes and wanting to let them fall closed but knowing he still wouldn't be able to sleep, Sam asked, "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe you should think about what you need step two to be," Tommy said, gripping his shoulder gently.

Sam almost managed not to flinch at the contact.

Tommy didn't seem to notice, or he chose not to mention it. He moved his hand away and a moment later, a cup of something steaming appeared in front of Sam's eyes. Blinking to clear his vision, Sam lifted a shaking hand to accept the cup.

"It's hot apple cider," Tommy said, pouring himself a cup, then setting the thermos aside. "Arla sent donuts along too."

Sam took a sip of the cider, focusing on the thought that Arla had been planning ahead. As if she'd _known_ he wouldn't be able to sleep. The thought warmed him more than the cider or the fire and he smiled. "I could go for a donut."

Tommy grinned, handed him one, then said, "I might have been wrong."

"About what?"

"You might be ready for step three."

Tommy sounded certain, but Sam wasn't. He chose to keep that to himself, though. Tommy wasn't getting any sleep again and Arla had packed snacks. They were both trying so hard to help him that he couldn't bear the thought of disappointing them. So he ate the donut and tried to convince himself he'd made progress.

* * *

Dean had been watching the clock for almost an hour now.

The sun was peeking in around the drapes and he sighed, rolling to his other side, then cursing when it did nothing but make his nose run faster. Giving up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and decided seven-thirty was a decent time to get moving. He blew his nose, crumpled the tissue into a ball and pitched it toward the wastebasket. It landed on the growing collection on the floor _next_ to the wastebasket. Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Shower. Food. Pack. Go.

Of course, those plans were contingent on him moving his butt and, at the moment, he didn't feel like budging. He hadn't slept well. Nightmare aside, the head congestion and tickle in his throat weren't exactly conducive to sleeping. Of course, Arla's chat hadn't done much for his chances to get a restful slumber either. Head in his hands, Dean tried not to think about everything she'd said. She was trying to help. But she didn't know them, not really, and she didn't understand what they had gone through so she couldn't help.

Nobody could.

He ran the back of his hand across his forehead, admitting to himself that he was definitely running a fever again. _What's the point of the antibiotics if I'm still sick?_ Shaking his head, Dean looked across the room to his gear. He knew there was some Tylenol in there somewhere. He'd been duly informed to lay off the ibuprofen, but if the Tylenol did its job, maybe the fever would be down enough that Arla wouldn't notice.

Dean was about to summon the required energy to cross the room when he heard a knock on the door. He'd left the door half-opened when he'd gone back to bed, fully intending to pay attention to when Sam returned from his nocturnal wanderings, but he'd fallen asleep without ever hearing if Sam made it back inside or not. The door opened slowly and Dean was relieved it wasn't Arla.

"Hey," he said, then coughed a couple times to clear his throat.

"Morning." Sam hesitated, then stepped into the room and held out a glass of water. "Thought you could use this."

Dean took the glass and downed half of it in a matter of seconds. It helped ease the sore throat and desert-dry mouth.

"I was going to bring you Tylenol or something," Sam added, hovering a few feet away as if uncertain whether he should stay or not, "but she said you had to eat before you took any pills."

Dean took in the fact that Sam's hair was damp and he was wearing fresh clothes. So he hadn't rolled out of bed five minutes ago. Wondering how long he'd been up, Dean asked, "What time did you go to bed?"

Sam shrugged.

"You know I can just ask Arla."

"I'm not five. I don't have a bedtime," Sam said, leaning against the dresser.

Dean took another sip of water, figuring that meant Sam hadn't gotten any sleep at all even if he had at some point gone back to bed. _He has to start looking better sometime, right?_ Dean shook his head; they should probably discuss this. He should address the issue, provide some support, but all Dean said was, "Yeah, well maybe you need one."

Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean didn't miss the white-knuckled grip he had on the dresser.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked as if he hadn't essentially just dodged that very same question himself. His eyes were tired, but sharp and Dean knew he couldn't hide the fact he wasn't feeling good.

"Feel like I've got a cold," Dean muttered.

"How's your stomach?"

"Hungry."

Sam's smile was barely there. "Arla has breakfast ready."

"Good. You eat?"

"Yeah."

"You know I can-"

"I know you can ask her. Stop being such a jerk about everything, ok?" Sam pushed off from the dresser like he intended to leave the room.

"Calm down." Dean waved a hand, knowing that flippancy wasn't going to win him any points today. With anyone. "Where're you going?"

"Somewhere else."

Dean figured it was a good thing he was still half-asleep because he allowed that comment without snapping back. Instead, he said, "We need to talk about what we're going to do next."

Sam nodded, but didn't respond. He also didn't move; just stood there staring at the floor. Dean wanted to ask him about last night. But he didn't because he didn't want to talk about his conversation with Arla and figured Sam wouldn't want to talk about whatever happened out there with Tommy. Dean wanted to ask him how he was doing. But he couldn't because he didn't want Sam asking _him_ the same question.

So the room fell silent, weighted down with questions too heavy for either of them to ask.

Dean's sneeze broke the silence and he cursed. Wiping his nose, he returned his attention to Sam. He was still standing there, but now his eyes were closed. It didn't bode well because Dean was counting on having a backup driver who was rested enough not to wrap them around a telephone pole.

And he was going to _need_ a backup driver because the first stop they were making after leaving was a bar or a liquor store. Or both. Both would be even better. If Sam didn't like it then he could take a hike or sit in the car and stew.

"You should eat. Then we'll figure it out." Sam's voice was soft and he left the room before Dean could say anything.

Dean wanted to roll back into bed, pull the covers over his head and ignore everything for a few more hours. Let the world sort itself out. Let _Sam_ sort himself out. Dean stared at the door and knew he was screwing everything up. He was making things worse. They needed to get back on the road. The pit stop at the hospital and here had been a necessary evil, but it wasn't helping them get past what happened.

Getting back in the hunt was what they needed. Getting out there and finding a way to destroy Dick Roman no matter what it took. Cas had made this mess, but Dean knew it was his responsibility to clean it up. He couldn't stop himself when his thoughts turned to Cas, stuck there with only Meg, of all people, to watch over him. And Dean had been the one to leave him there.

His heart hurt worse than any other part of him and no Tylenol was going to help that pain.

* * *

It was just after noon before he spoke to Sam again.

Dean had been camped out on the couch since breakfast for two reasons. One-he hadn't managed the Tylenol before Arla had come after him with a thermometer and informed him that his fever was 101.4 and, no he wasn't leaving yet; he wasn't going anywhere but to the couch. Two-as much as he wanted to fight her on it, he couldn't. Because he felt sick enough that a couch without pieces chewed out of it, tobacco stains, or noxious odors sounded amazing.

So he'd eaten breakfast, verified Sam _had_ actually eaten something and learned he hadn't come back inside the house until four in the morning. Neither he nor Arla said a single word about their conversation last night for which he was grateful. Truth be told, he was mortified that he'd been such a jerk to her, but the emotions were far too close to the surface for him to be able to even consider apologizing. He'd finished his breakfast in silence and Arla had left the room with a smile and a gentle pat on his shoulder.

Since then, he'd been sitting on the couch going through every single kleenex box Arla had in the house. She'd helpfully provided a wastebasket next to the end of the couch and he was careful to get the tissues in the basket instead of all over the floor. Sam had been settled in the armchair by the time Dean had come downstairs. He had the laptop open, but as far as Dean could tell, he'd been sitting there for the past four hours staring at the web search page. The screen would go blank every so often and he'd wake the computer back up, but other than that, he did absolutely nothing.

Dean wanted to be angry about it. Wanted to tell Sam to do something productive. But he kept his mouth shut because, silent and still as he was, Sam clearly wasn't doing well and Dean didn't dare take a chance on making things any worse than he already had. If he couldn't control himself enough to not snap at Sam, then he needed to keep his mouth shut.

Having grown so used to the continual silence, he was surprised when Sam closed the laptop and set it on the coffee table.

Looking away from the television, Dean watched Sam get to his feet. He didn't go anywhere though. When a full minute passed in silence, Dean prompted, "You gonna stand there all day?"

No answer.

This was getting so old. Dean clenched a fist and shifted a bit more on the couch. Letting his attention wander back to the movie for a moment, Dean wished Sam hadn't moved. Hadn't broken the spell. For a few hours, he'd been able to escape reality and (mostly) stop worrying about everything; Sam included. Now the worry was back in spades. Looking back at Sam, still standing where he was, he sighed. He didn't feel up to moving at the moment and, clearly, neither did Sam.

Trying again, he asked, "What are you doing?"

"Going for a run."

Dean snorted. _Of all the stupidest_...he shook his head and said, "You can't even stand up straight. Sit down."

Sam started walking toward the door.

"Are you serious?" Dean's fragile hold on his temper broke. Looking over his shoulder as Sam reached the front door, he asked, "You even have a weapon on you, Marathon Man?"

"Thought you said this was a vacation," Sam muttered, sparing a quick glance back.

Dean frowned. He didn't look right. Jittery and shaky. _Oh wait, that's just the new normal,_ Dean thought bitterly, hating himself for even thinking it. _It's not his fault._ Even so, it was wearing on both of them. Dean should have taken a moment longer to think through his response, but he didn't.

He turned back to the tv and said, "In case you forgot, monsters don't get vacations. _Leviathans_ don't get vacations. This town may look like Mayberry, but it doesn't mean there aren't monsters out there looking for us. Take a freakin' weapon so you can do something if one of 'em tries to eat you."

"I don't care."

"Well you should."

Dean stared at the tv, drawn back into the action through a burning desire to avoid the reality of the situation around him. But he couldn't really focus on the movie anymore. He frowned, thinking about what Sam had said.

 _I don't care._

Shaking his head again, Dean felt anger stir. _He doesn't care? I wish_ I _didn't care. Well guess what, Sammy? We don't get to not care about the monsters. That's our_ job _in case you forgot that, too._ Letting the anger simmer for a few more minutes, Dean realized he never heard the front door open. _If he's still standing there…_

But he wasn't still standing there.

Dean frowned as he heard a door close. Upstairs. His brain stalled out for a moment and then went into overdrive as he replayed their conversation. He'd blown it. For the first time in hours, Sam had moved. And he'd been about to _do_ something other than lay in bed or sit in front of a television ignoring his problems. _Like me._ Sighing, Dean wondered if it would do any good if he went up and talked to his brother. Somehow he doubted it.

 _I don't care_.

It burned to remember Sam's disregard for the fight. _Their_ fight. At least it always _had_ been their fight. Maybe it wasn't anymore. Dean took a sip of water that he really wished was beer then nearly spit it out. Gasping and wiping water off his chin, he stared blindly at the television. Because hindsight was always 20/20 and his dull, stupid mind finally remembered the exact words of their conversation. The exact order, in fact.

" _Take a freakin' weapon so you can do something if one of 'em tries to eat you."_

" _I don't care."_

Dean set the bottle on the end table with a shaking hand. He looked at the staircase and felt sicker than he had in days. It wasn't the fight Sam didn't care about.

" _...if one of 'em tries to eat you."_

" _I don't care."_

Turning the tv off, he thought back to everything Arla had said last night; things she'd tried to make him realize but he'd wanted to ignore. He'd been ignoring the signs even _before_ she'd brought them up. He hadn't wanted to admit it, hadn't wanted to acknowledge it because they didn't do that. They didn't acknowledge pain. They picked up the pieces and pushed onward. Maybe it was the cumulative effect of losing Cas, Bobby, and his mind, but Sam wasn't having an easy time picking up the pieces this time.

Dean pushed himself off the couch, wavering unsteadily for a moment. Once he was sure he wouldn't fall over, he made his way toward the staircase. It still took a lot of effort to go up and down the stairs. Heart thudding, he took the steps at less than half-speed. As usual, he needed to pause a third of the way up to catch his breath. By the time he reached the pointedly closed door, he still hadn't figured out what he was going to say.

Knocking on the door, Dean hoped he could do something right for once. Not receiving an answer, his blood pressure spiked and it was just a damn good thing Sam hadn't locked the door. The sight of his brother laying back on the bed, an arm flung over his face, and his feet on the floor, took some of the fire out of Dean's anger. Sam was still dressed, still had his shoes on, and the thought that he'd been considering going anywhere, much less for a run, was completely laughable.

But Dean wasn't laughing.

"Sam?"

"What?"

"What're you doing?" _Brilliant opener, idiot._

"Leave me alone, will you?" Sam muttered, not moving.

He didn't sound angry. He sounded tired. Dean had hoped for anger because he _was_ angry and it would be much easier to have an argument right now rather than a conversation.

"Fine," Dean said, but got nothing in return.

He shook his head, if Sam wanted to lay in bed all day, he could. _His own stupid fault for staying up until four am._ Dean pushed off from the door frame intending to head to the other bedroom and grab his jacket, wallet and keys. Then he caught sight of the orange pill bottles gathering dust on the bedside table. The scary thought crossed his mind that maybe he should count the pills.

But he didn't.

What he did was walk away.

In the back of his mind, he knew it was the wrong reaction; the worst thing to do right now, but he'd reached his limit. He could not handle anything else without a drink. So he turned and left the room even though there was a part of him that told him he shouldn't.

* * *

Arla knew something wasn't right.

She'd been in the kitchen about to start lunch when she'd heard voices in the living room. Unable to make out what was being said, she'd taken a quick peek in time to see Sam going upstairs. Frowning, she was about to check on him when Dean dragged himself off the couch. Leaving them to it, she went back to making grilled cheese sandwiches. Tommy was on the back porch on the phone and she didn't know what he was up to, but he looked pleased as punch.

By the time she'd started buttering the bread, she heard footsteps and looked up hoping to see both boys. It was just Dean, though, and he looked worried.

Neither of them had said anything about the conversation last night and Arla wasn't sure if that were a good thing or not. Dean had been less than chatty this morning, but he'd been sociable enough over breakfast and not fought too much when she'd taken his temperature and told him he wasn't going anywhere. Since then, he'd taken up residence on the couch staring at the television and building a mountain inside the wastebasket from the tissues.

Dean came towards her instead of the television and she braced herself.

"I've almost got lunch ready," she smiled although she was shaking inside. "Is Sam-"

"He's not hungry," Dean said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Where's the car?"

Arla's eyebrows rose. "The car?"

"Yeah. Where's my car?"

 _Oh, heaven help me now,_ Arla wished Tommy were here. Wished he'd told the boys about the car. After their discussion last night, Arla knew this conversation wasn't going to go over well at all. She almost deflected the question, but then she steeled herself.

"Tommy cleaned it out for you boys and got rid of it." Arla was proud of herself for maintaining eye contact. Her voice didn't even wobble. _Much._

Dean's eyes went wide and for the longest time he said nothing. Arla wondered if he'd gone into shock. She continued making sandwiches, hoping against hope that Tommy would walk through that door and provide back-up. But he didn't and she was going to throttle him later if she survived Dean's wrath.

"You got rid of my car?" Dean found his voice. He frowned like he couldn't comprehend what she had said. But there was an edge to his tone that told her he did comprehend. All too well. "Why would you do that?"

"Tommy thought it would be best to get rid of it since it seemed like you boys were on the run."

His expression darkened and she could see the internal battle he was fighting. After a few anxiety-leaden seconds, he said, "You had no right to do that."

And then he turned and walked away.

Knowing she was taking a huge chance, Arla started after him and said, "Dean, where are you going?"

"For a walk," he shouted back. He yanked the front door nearly off its hinges, then slammed it so hard the pictures rattled.

Arla didn't follow. She'd been staring at the front door for a few minutes when Tommy's voice startled her.

"What happened?"

Turning to him, she said, "Dean wasn't happy we ditched his car."

Tommy grinned, "I bet he wasn't."

"It's not funny, Thomas." Arla glared at him and pulled away when he reached for her. Storming to the kitchen, she said, "He was furious. I'm not sure we did the right thing-"

"We did." Tommy wasn't grinning anymore. "That car needed to go. Whether they _borrowed_ it or bought it used, it needed to go. Those news reports a couple months ago had them as wanted men, Arla. They've been covering their tracks well and doing that means trading cars often. I wasn't chancing that car being anywhere near us, or them."

Arla sighed and nodded. "You're right. I get it. I just wish _you'd_ been the one who had to break that news to Dean. I'm not his favorite person right now."

"He _has_ a favorite person?" Tommy smirked, then said, "I'm sorry I wasn't here."

"Well you can make amends by going after him. He said he was going for a walk."

Tommy sat down at the counter and grabbed a slice of cheese. "He's not going to get far."

"Stop eating the profits." Arla snatched the cheese back, minus one bite. "That's going on your sandwich, mister. And he could walk to California if he set his mind to it."

"True. But he needs to blow off some of this steam. He's like that pot of stew Sara let boil too long. I've never seen a lid go flying that far." Tommy laughed, then shook his head. He said, "He needs to get it out of his system before he blows apart."

Arla stared at him, then took a deep breath. Flipping the sandwich on the griddle, she said, "Ok. You may be right. However." She shook a finger at him. "If he is not back in thirty minutes, you're going out there after him."

"Thirty minutes? That's hardly-"

"It's more than enough time considering how sick he is," Arla cut him off. "He was still running a fever when he miraculously allowed me to check his temperature before breakfast. Exerting himself too much, even if it is a warm day, is not good for him."

"Alright. Thirty it is." Tommy nodded. He took a peek out at the living room, then asked, "Sam upstairs?"

She nodded. "They'd been sitting in the living room since breakfast. Then I saw Sam going upstairs and Dean followed him."

"They have a fight?"

"I don't know." Arla put his sandwich on a plate and handed it to him as he reached for a bag of chips. "I didn't hear anything they said. Dean went up after him and then came down and asked me about the car."

Tommy checked his watch and frowned, "That can't be good."

"None of this is good," Arla said, leaning against the counter, feeling more tired than a few sleepless nights could be held responsible for. She lowered her voice and said, "I've never believed that adage about leading horses to water as much as I do right now. Short of putting their heads straight into the water, I don't know how to get either of them to drink. And I'm concerned that they'd just drown rather than drink it anyway."

"I know you're worried, honey." Tommy rounded the counter and wrapped her in his arms. "And I'm not saying you don't have cause to be. But they're still here. They could have left at any point, or pushed us away at the hospital-"

"They were desperate-"

"Exactly. And they still are. They're desperate for a safe place to recover, a place to work through all of this. Even if they don't know that's what they're looking for, that's exactly what they need. And it's why they're still here."

Arla wasn't as confident as he was, but she nodded. Tommy smiled and took the plates to the table and they sat down to eat. She wanted to ask him who he'd been on the phone with, but couldn't find it in herself to care. Watching the clock, she managed to engage in polite conversation with her husband about nothing in particular. At the twenty-minute mark, though, she couldn't hold back any longer.

"Tommy, you need to go look for him."

His eyebrows rose and he smiled. "Thought he had thirty minutes."

"I changed my mind," Arla said, checking her watch then looking back up. "He is sick and he's not in a good place right now. I don't care if he wants space or needs fresh air, the last thing he needs is to be out there alone right now. Go find him."

"Yes, ma'am." Tommy smiled, but she could tell he was as worried as she was. "If I come back with a black eye, don't be surprised."

She didn't return his smile. "Text me when you find him, ok?"

"I will." He rose and gave her a quick kiss then grabbed the keys and headed for the garage.

With a sigh, Arla began cleaning up the dishes.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed! Ch24 is coming along very nicely so I'm anticipating it will be up this weekend at the latest. :D Have a great day!**


	24. Where'd you go?

**No spoilers...but holy cow! Season premier! Anyone wants to talk about it PM me! :D My best friend hasn't been able to watch it yet so I have no one to chat with except for you guys! Already chatted with a couple of you about it.**

 **Anyway... :) Here's ch 24 for you to enjoy! (or cry your way through, either one works I suppose). And as long as I'm thinking about it...a tissue warning would probably be appropriate. Also, just a heads up that this one gets pretty heavy and some very dark topics are implied/discussed. Nothing out of keeping with what has already been in the story or that was implied/discussed on the show itself, but wanted to throw out a warning. I PROMISE they are gonna get better! It doesn't seem like it right now haha...but seriously, they're gonna be fine (or at least "Winchester-fine") by the end of the story.**

 **Huge thank you to L.H. the Second my wonderful friend and beta! She is always there for me when I'm stuck (or using incorrect punctuation lol). Without her, this story wouldn't be anywhere near as polished...and probably wouldn't be getting written so quickly.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 24: Where'd you go?**_

Dean had been right, of course.

He wasn't up to a run, much as he wanted to take one. He'd needed to escape Dean's palpable anger and, since he couldn't run, returning upstairs had seemed his only option. Sam hadn't been surprised when Dean followed him up, but was relieved he hadn't lingered. Right now, he didn't have the energy to fight with his brother.

Or to help him.

Sighing, he knew lying back down had not been a good plan because he wasn't sure he could get up again; but Sam hadn't been able to stop himself. Sleep wasn't on the agenda; too keyed up to sleep, he'd just been too tired to stay upright. He listened to Dean's footsteps going down the stairs and his thoughts turned to some of the things Tommy had said out by the fire.

At first, he'd been angry with the remark that he didn't trust Dean, but the more he thought about it, the more he knew Tommy had a point. Even so, Sam felt like he was justified in keeping some things from his brother. Tommy didn't know Dean the way he did. Dean's frustration level, obvious even in the few short encounters he'd had with him today, was through the roof.

Since he had no clue how to help Dean deal with his anger over what Cas had done, Sam knew it would be kinder to at least keep some of his issues to himself. He was functional; more or less. He could handle things on his own. He'd managed an entire conversation with Tommy without an issue. Talking with Tommy hadn't been easy, but it had helped.

At least that's what he told himself.

The sound of the front door slamming shook him out of his reverie. Lowering his arm from over his eyes, Sam stared at the ceiling. Although he hadn't heard raised voices, he didn't doubt Dean had slammed the door. Getting off the bed seemed like an insurmountable ordeal, but he knew he should go after him instead of lying around listening to the radio and pretending it helped more than it actually did.

Closing his eyes, Sam decided to give Dean a few minutes to cool off before going after him. It would be better in the long run for both of them. On a good day, Sam could hold his own and possibly even shout some sense into him. But today? Today he'd _already_ been avoiding his brother because he wasn't sure he could handle Dean's anger.

He hated himself for being such a coward.

Summoning the strength to get himself upright again, Sam stared at the clock in surprise. It had been almost half an hour since he'd come upstairs. Time had passed in a haze and he wondered if Dean had come back yet. If he hadn't, Sam figured that meant he'd found a bar or raided a liquor store. Either way, he was probably drunk by now. The thought only made him feel worse. He got to his feet; the image of Dean behind the wheel of a car in his condition enough to get Sam moving again.

It took a minute for the dizziness to pass, then Sam crossed the room and headed downstairs. He'd stupidly hoped to find Dean back on the couch, but instead found the living room empty. The rest of the house seemed deserted as well and he felt his skin crawl with the anxiety he'd become all too familiar with in the past year.

The house, once warm and inviting, seemed eerie; an empty illusion. It reminded him of the intricate deceptions he'd become used to seeing. He almost expected blood to begin running down the pale blue walls, iron spikes to emerge from the cheerful vases of blooming flowers, rusted chains to bubble up from the smooth hardwood floors. Even though he knew the difference now, _knew_ that it wasn't going to happen, it lingered in the back of his mind as he walked to the front door.

Calling out a greeting might have elicited a response from someone in the house, but once he thought about the way the door had slammed, he knew the only person he wanted to find would be somewhere outside. _If he hasn't walked out of town by now_ , Sam thought, stepping out the front door. He wondered if this time it would be real and not just a hallucination; not just a game the devil played with his mind.

Maybe this was the time Dean left and never came back.

His stomach twisted, his legs went weak and he only made it to the front steps before he couldn't go any farther. Holding onto the rail, he eased himself down on the top step and waited for the world to settle.

"Sam?"

He looked up at the sound of Arla's voice. She stood in the still open doorway and looked uncertain if she should approach or not. Struggling to focus, Sam asked, "Where is he?"

"I don't know." Arla sighed, lowering herself to sit on the top step next to him. "But Tommy's gone to find him."

It was a small comfort in the grand scheme of things, Sam decided. As glad as he was that Tommy was looking for his brother, it didn't diminish the gnawing worry. Because he knew how dangerously on edge Dean was and he should have paid more attention, should have tried again to get through to him. He shouldn't have given up so quickly. He'd been so wrapped up in his own problems that he hadn't been helping Dean deal with everything else. He'd done nothing but weigh Dean down; adding to the problem instead of helping.

Sam looked at Arla from the corner of his eye. "Did he take the car?"

"No, he went for a walk."

That was some relief, anyway. "Do you have the keys to our car? I need to go-"

"Tommy got rid of the car."

Sam's heart skipped a beat. And then another one. And then it very nearly stopped altogether as he looked at her. "Does Dean know?"

Arla smiled, "Why do you think he took a walk?"

The world hadn't ended, but now he knew why the door had slammed. Touching Dean's car on a good day was taking your life in your hands; even if the car they were driving wasn't the Impala. Taking Dean's only method of escape, his last means of _freedom,_ had probably sent him right over the edge.

The breath rushed out of Sam and his eyes slid closed, head coming to rest on his folded arms braced across his knees. A gentle hand was on his arm and he started to pull away, but the hand gripped him tighter, holding him in place.

"It's going to be ok, Sam."

He heard what she said but he didn't believe it. Not at all.

Arla slid an inch closer, her grip on his arm remaining firm, while her other arm settled over his shoulders. It should have been comforting, but it wasn't. Too fatigued to fight her, Sam still leaned away as much as he could, settling his left shoulder against the porch railing.

 _Why won't she leave me alone? She needs to stop touching me..._

Keeping his head down, he concentrated on breathing because he felt so trapped that, if he didn't concentrate on something other than the feeling of hands on him, he was going to lose it. Her touch was gentle and he knew she meant well, knew she was safe and didn't intend to hurt him, but being touched like this brought back an entirely new set of unwanted memories.

It shouldn't have. Because she was nothing like _him._ But it reminded Sam too much of the things the devil had done to him.

Things far worse than beating him bloody.

That kind of pain eventually blurred into nothingness. It didn't hurt less, but it did lose some of its novelty. It was the _other_ things Lucifer had done to him that had destroyed his resolve; obliterated his hope. The other things were what Sam didn't know how to handle; didn't know how to pack up and forget.

Holding his breath, Sam pulled away from her even more. Arla must have felt his discomfort because she withdrew her hands. The memories wouldn't let up, but the absence of her touch swept over him like an ice cold rain. The loss of contact left him feeling adrift.

Worrying he'd offended Arla by refusing her well-intended attempts at comfort, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

She meant it, he was certain, but he still needed to explain, to be sure she understood it wasn't _her._ Arla was by far one of the nicest people he'd ever met and she didn't deserve any of this. Not able, even yet, to meet her eyes, he said, "It's not you. It's...the things I remember. Things that happened..."

Arla didn't respond and Sam couldn't bear to look at her; to see the rejection, the disgust. He shook his head, staring at the grass through the gaps in the porch railing. "You think I'm-"

"I think you're hurting," Arla cut him off softly. She didn't sound like she hated him, and he spared a quick glance, surprised to see the compassion in her eyes as she continued, "That's what I think, Sam. I think you're in so much pain that you can barely breathe."

He tried to control how much he was trembling, but he knew he wasn't hiding anything. She slid another inch closer to him, her left arm wrapped around his shoulders and her other hand returned to his arm. He flinched away, but this time she wouldn't let him go.

Her voice was gentle as she whispered, "I'm not him, Sam. No one is going to hurt you here."

Sam tried to relax as she held him close. It was like he'd always imagined his mother's embrace to be like. His mother had never held him like this; at least not when he'd been old enough to remember. But Arla wasn't his mother and if she knew the things he'd done, the things that had been done _to_ him, she'd never want to touch him again. She still didn't understand that he wasn't someone you should want to get close to.

So he pulled away, this time making it to his feet.

"Sam?" Arla asked, but she didn't move.

"I'm sorry." He kept his back to her. "For all of this. I'm sorry we ran into you again and-"

"Stop right there."

She was in front of him now without him registering she'd moved. And even though she was a foot shorter than him, the intimidation factor from the look in her eyes made him feel small. Arla's eyes flashed with emotion. Not pity, not disgust.

Anger.

Her voice was steady, though, as she said, "Your brother said the same thing to me last night and I've had it. Neither of you ran into me. _I_ was the one who called out to Dean. He didn't even see me at first. Did either of you stop to think that if I hadn't wanted to see you again, hadn't wanted to be drawn back into your lives, I could simply have ignored Dean in that parking lot?"

Well. No. He hadn't considered that. Sam opened his mouth, but she cut him off again.

"I chose to make contact with him that night not because I had to, but because I _wanted_ to. Neither of you can seem to understand that Tommy and I _care_ about you." Her eyes were bright as she said, "The reason I talked to him that night doesn't even have anything to do with how you saved our lives, our entire town, that Christmas. I stopped Dean in the parking lot because I was glad to see him. We happen to like both of you."

There was a hint of a smile on her face, but Sam shook his head.

"You wouldn't like us if you knew us," he said, fighting to maintain the control he was quickly losing. "You wouldn't like me if you knew what I've done."

Arla stared at him, lips pursed and hands on her hips. She said, "Alright. Tell me. What did you do? Then we can have this issue settled, ok? What did you do?"

Sam shook his head again, blinking back tears and trying to move away. He didn't want to see the change. Didn't want to see the compassion in her eyes snuffed out, replaced by hatred. Looking at the ground, he said, "Please, just let me go."

"Tell me what you did." Arla tilted his chin up until he met her eyes. She kept her hand on his cheek and repeated, "Sam, what did you do?"

"I let Lucifer free from hell and destroyed the world." The words spilled out like they were alive. He couldn't hold them back.

Sam sucked in a shocked breath. His heart felt like it was about to pound out of his chest and he was sitting on the step again without knowing how he got there. Arla was in front of him, crouched down, and he was waiting for the condemnation, the hatred. Instead, she placed a hand on his arm and smiled.

"Well you didn't do a very good job of it, did you?" Arla asked, smile widening although there were tears in her eyes.

"What?" he choked out.

Arla touched his cheek again, forcing him to maintain eye contact. "You didn't do a very good job of destroying the world if we're here now on my front porch talking about it. I think I would have noticed something like the end of the world."

Sam shook his head, trying to break free from her grasp, but she didn't budge. He whispered, "You don't believe me. But I did. I trusted a _demon_. I trusted her and the things I did-"

"I don't care what you did."

"-I almost killed my brother."

"But you didn't."

"I let the _devil_ free!"

"Because you trusted a demon?"

He nodded.

Arla said, "Last time I checked, demons were evil, Sam."

"Yes, but-"

Arla held up a hand to shush him and said, "I don't think you did any of it intentionally. Did you?"

The answer to that was complex and he didn't know where to begin so he merely said, "Doesn't change the fact that I did it. Because of me, the world nearly ended."

"That's not what Dean said." Arla smiled. "He told me you saved the world."

Sam had no idea how to respond. He'd never expected to hear that from Dean. He, of all people, knew just how guilty Sam was.

Arla studied him for a long moment, then asked, "Everything you've gone through, the insomnia, the hallucinations? They're related to all of this? Related to the devil?"

"Yeah," Sam said, hoping she wasn't going to press him for more because he'd already said more than he'd ever intended.

"Is that _why_ you've had the hallucinations and everything else? Did he cause them?"

"More or less," Sam admitted. _Please stop asking questions..._

"Did you boys take care of the devil?"

He nodded, fighting as hard as he ever had not to cry. He was _not_ going to cry like a baby in front of her.

"Good." She smiled, and there were tears in _her_ eyes when she said, "Then you shouldn't be punishing yourself."

"It's my fault," he said, voice almost inaudible while his shame screamed louder than a freight train. "Whatever happened...whatever I went through wasn't enough. Will never be enough to-"

"I forgive you," Arla replied without hesitation.

Sam shook his head. "I don't-"

"Yes. You do. You _do_ deserve to be forgiven." Arla said it like it was the end of the discussion. She sat back down on the step next to him and took his hand, squeezing it with both of hers. Leaning closer, she nudged his shoulder and whispered, "I forgive you."

He had no idea how to respond to someone offering absolution for the kind of crimes he'd committed. So he didn't respond. Instead, he tightened his fingers around hers and held on like she was the last life-preserver in a storm tossed sea.

* * *

He was halfway through a bottle by the time Tommy found him.

Hoping it was his _first_ bottle, Tommy stood by the door for a few seconds, gauging the situation before diving in. He was impressed; it had taken a lot longer to find him than he'd expected. As he'd told Arla, the Winchesters knew how to disappear. Had Dean been feeling better, Tommy figured there was a good chance he never would have found him at all.

As it was, he'd checked three bars and the closest liquor store without any luck. He'd expected Dean not to choose the closest bar, but he was surprised Dean had made it past the _second_ closest bar. _Stubbornness might be the defining characteristic of all Winchesters,_ Tommy mused, sending Arla a quick text to let her know he'd found him.

He may have made it this far, but it didn't look like Dean was going to make it any further. Tucked into a dark corner booth, he was hunched over the table, one hand flat on the table and the other gripping the bottle that he had no business having. Tommy watched him take a long drink, the bottle trembling in his hand. Dean lowered it, turning a bit green in the process, but lifted the bottle for yet another drink.

Shaking his head, Tommy took a deep breath and headed toward the table. He wasn't sure how to handle the situation and even less sure how _Dean_ was going to handle it. Depending on how this went, he considered the fact that he might wind up with that black eye he'd teased Arla about. Dean was angry and now had added alcohol to the mix.

Dean looked up before he was even halfway there. Drunk, sick or angry, the kid was sharp, there was no doubt about it. Reaching the table, Tommy sat down across from Dean without asking for permission he knew he wouldn't get.

"How'd you find me?" Dean asked, straightening up a little. He didn't move his hand from the bottle and didn't pull it closer to him, but there was a distinct challenge in his eyes. If Tommy made a move on the bottle he'd have a fight on his hands.

Instead, he settled comfortably in the booth and said, "I'm a cop."

Nodding, Dean took another drink as if daring Tommy to intervene. Tommy didn't, but his return gaze was unflinching. The bottle hit the table a little harder than Dean had probably intended which told Tommy that he wasn't as steady as he was trying to appear. His face was flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat.

"What now?" Dean asked, his tone bitter and his voice raw. He sounded even more congested than he had earlier. "You gonna arrest me?"

"Do I need to?"

Dean rolled his eyes, his free hand tightening on the edge of the table as he went a shade paler.

"I thought it was time for us to have a chat." Tommy folded his arms across his chest, leaning back in the seat and pinning Dean with his own challenging stare. _Time to face up to what you're doing to yourself. And what it's doing to your brother._

"Pass."

Tommy's smile was thin. He shook his head. "You don't get to pass. Seems to me you've been doing enough of that lately."

The comment lit a fire in Dean.

His eyes darkened and he ground out, "You got no right to talk to me. About anything. But you're right. I don't get to pass. I never have and I never will. We don't _get_ to pass in our line of work because there's always something else-"

"And there always will be," Tommy cut him off. "But those are just words you're saying. You're trying to convince yourself and everyone else that you believe them. But it's just the mask you're wearing because you can't let it show to anyone, yourself included, that you've given up."

Dean looked stunned. Angry all the same, but stunned, and Tommy knew he'd hit the nail on the head. He wasn't surprised when Dean started to push himself out of the booth.

"Don't go anywhere, son," Tommy said, not moving an inch, "this conversation isn't over."

"It _is_ over." Dean didn't stop moving, bottle still clutched in his hand.

"So what's your plan, then? Stumble out of here with that bottle in your hand and drown

in it? Maybe get yourself killed along the way?"

Dean's shoulders stiffened and this time he did stop moving.

Taking his opportunity, Tommy dove in for the kill shot. "You trust your brother so little that you'd do that to him?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean turned back to look at him, holding the bottle on the table between them as if it were the prize they were fighting over.

"You don't trust Sam."

Guilt and fury mingled in Dean's eyes. He slammed a fist down on the table and said, "You don't know what you're talking about-"

"Don't I?" Tommy asked, pushing him just as he'd pushed Sam earlier. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you don't trust him at all."

"I trust him," Dean said, staring at the bottle. He sneezed a few times, cursing under his breath and wiping his nose on his sleeve. After a few seconds, the tension went out of his shoulders and his grip on the bottle loosened. He looked up and the anger was muted by grief now as he continued, "We lost everything this year, ok? Everything and _everyone_ that mattered. Everyone we trusted. He's the only one I've got left _to_ trust."

There was the tiniest crack in his voice and stony facade this time and Tommy knew he needed to make use of his opportunity or he was going to lose it. Resting his elbows on the table, he asked, "Then why aren't you trusting him with this?"

"This?"

Tommy tapped the bottle. "With this. And with all the reasons you're sitting here drinking when you've only been out of the hospital for a day and he's back at my house worrying himself sick about you."

Dean shook his head. "This has nothing to do with trust."

"Doesn't it, though? You're hoarding all your pain, anger, and the other broken pieces of your life. It's only making the bleeding worse. You think that by keeping it from him, keeping it locked up, you're doing him a favor; doing yourself a favor. But all you're doing is making it more difficult for him to heal, and you're making it impossible for yourself to heal."

Downing another drink as if in purposeful rebellion, Dean didn't respond. At least he'd stopped trying to leave; Tommy had to appreciate his victories, however small they were. For a few minutes, they sat there without saying a word while Dean continued to drink. Fully prepared to sit there all afternoon if that was what it took, he didn't expect Dean to speak up again so soon.

"He's not doing well, is he?" Dean asked softly.

"No," Tommy answered honestly, "he isn't."

"Did he talk to you last night?"

"Some. But I'm not the person he wants to, or needs to, talk to."

"He doesn't want to talk to me." Dean shook his head, taking another drink. There was resignation and hurt in his voice as he said, "I've tried but he's made it pretty clear he doesn't want to talk to me."

"Of course he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to talk to anybody. Doesn't mean he doesn't need to and it doesn't mean that he _won't_ if you give him the chance." Tommy softened his tone when he saw the hopelessness in Dean's eyes. "If you _keep_ giving him the chance. I know you've tried, but if you give up on him, you're going to lose him."

"I'm not giving up on him-"

"Good. Then you need to face up to your own issues." Tommy's voice was firm and he held Dean's gaze without wavering. "You're trying to keep all of that pain and loss to yourself because you've convinced yourself that you can handle it and he can't. Sam's doing the same thing. He's so worried about making things worse for you that he's losing himself in the process."

Tommy paused, but Dean remained silent; staring down at the bottle again. Continuing, Tommy said, "You've both mentioned that you've lost friends this year. You're both grieving and feel alone right now, but you aren't. Until you can accept that, though, nothing is going to get better."

Dean didn't look at him, but Tommy could see some of the resistance draining out of him. He was considering what had been said. That was a step in the right direction. Tommy watched him take another drink and knew he needed to address the rest of it while he had the chance.

"You need to step away from the alcohol," Tommy said, watching the tension redouble. Dean's hand tightened around the bottle. Leaning forward, he caught Dean's eye and said, "You need to step away. At least until you're in a place where _you_ can control it instead of it controlling you."

"I know what I'm-"

"You don't know what you're doing." Tommy shook his head, encouraged that Dean was still meeting his eyes. He said, "You might have been in control of this at one point, but you aren't any more."

Tommy waited a moment for a reaction but Dean stared at him in stony silence, lips set in a hard line. If he didn't want to own up to it, Tommy was going to have to give him another push. So he said point blank, "You have a drinking problem, Dean."

As expected, that got him a reaction. There was a challenge in his eyes and tone when Dean asked, "You sayin' I'm an alcoholic?"

"Are you?"

Anger darkened Dean's features for a moment and Tommy prepared himself for the fact that he might not be able to win this battle.

After a moment, though, Dean lost any and all resistance. He slumped further into the seat and said, "I never used to drink like this. I don't know _when_ I started to drink like this."

He sounded shocked and ashamed. His fingers released the bottle and it was as good as a white flag of surrender in Tommy's book. Dean stared at the bottle for a long time and Tommy kept his mouth shut. The situation remained tenuous and he knew Dean's volatile anger was depleted at the moment, but not gone. Tommy would need to continue carefully walking the invisible fine line between them if he hoped for a positive outcome.

Dean finally stopped staring at the bottle and looked up. His eyes weren't exactly clear, but they were clearer than they should have been considering the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. Which told Tommy exactly how much of a problem his drinking really was.

"I can't believe you ditched my car."

The abrupt change of topic didn't phase Tommy. He shrugged. "It wasn't your car and we both know it. That car needed to go. Do we really need to discuss it?"

Shaking his head, Dean ran a hand through his hair and straightened a bit. "How much do you know?"

"About what?"

"About us. About things that have been-"

"Going bump in the night?" Tommy chanced a smile.

Dean returned it, although his smile was brief and didn't reach his eyes. He said, "They don't just go bump in the night. They pretty much go bump whenever and wherever they damn well please."

"I know."

"How _much_ do you know?"

"Enough. We watch the news, Dean."

Dean's eyes narrowed and he asked, "You've seen-"

"We've seen things that we don't believe," Tommy said firmly. "We know enough about you two to know you weren't out there robbing banks or going on shooting sprees. There's a good explanation."

"You don't know that."

"We know better than to believe everything on the news. What's more? We know you two. Yes, it's been a few years. Yes, things change. You've changed. But you didn't change into murderers."

Dean looked completely floored. But then the walls went back up and he said, "You and Arla have too much faith in us. You're too trusting."

"Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe you're not trusting enough."

"I've trusted people," Dean spat, jaw tightening, "and they've turned around and stabbed me in the back."

Tommy nodded, "It happens. You think you're the first person to lose a friend? To have someone you love betray you?"

"Of course not, but-"

"You don't give up on everyone because one person, or even many people, break your heart or turn on you."

Dean snorted and the bitterness came through loud and clear when he said, "He did more than that. Cas went to the _enemy_ instead of coming to us. I tried talking to him and he wouldn't listen to me. _Never_ listened to me."

Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was just _time_ for him to say everything he'd been thinking. Either way, Tommy wasn't going to interrupt.

"He brought monsters into the world," Dean said, his voice low and shaking, "as if we didn't have enough to deal with already. I trusted him like a brother and he hurt Sam. He almost _killed_ him."

Dean paused, averting his eyes. He wiped his hand over his face to hide the brightness of his eyes. If Tommy hadn't already known, he knew now. The anger threatening to utterly consume the kid had a specific locus although it burned wild and spread in every direction. Much as he wanted- _needed-_ to save the world, Dean would watch it burn for the sake of his brother.

They were silent for a long time. Tommy watched the play of emotions on Dean's face as he stared vacantly across the nearly empty bar. His hand crept back to the bottle but he didn't lift it.

Tommy wasn't sure what to say. Saying something like _but he didn't kill him_ sounded trite to his own ears. If everything he was piecing together about what Sam had gone through was accurate, and he knew whatever had happened was a thousand times worse than anything he could imagine, killing him might have been _kinder._

His thoughts turned to Arla and Sam and he wondered how they were doing. But he wasn't going to check his phone right now to find out.

"What do you want from me?" Dean asked, splintering the silence with his angry question. "Why did you come here?"

"I came here to make sure you weren't going to drink yourself to death because I don't want to be the one who has to bury you and your brother." Tommy's response was controlled, but bordering on anger itself. Dean's eyebrows rose and Tommy went on, "Right now, in his current state of mind, do you think he'd survive if anything happened to you?"

"No." There was no hesitation in his response.

"Neither do I. So what I want from you is as simple as it is complicated. I want you to get a handle on your anger and start trusting your brother again." Tommy saw Dean's gaze flicker back to him. Encouraged, he went on, "That's it. Simple but complicated. I can't pretend to understand what your friend did to either of you and I'm not asking you boys to tell me in detail. You _can_ talk to me, or to Arla, about anything if it will help."

Dean's shoulders and expression tightened so Tommy quickly added, "But we understand if you can't or don't choose to. What I am asking you to do is talk to Sam. He needs to open up about what he's gone through or he's not going to get better."

"We don't usually...talk about stuff like this."

"Maybe not, but you need to this time." Tommy could see the uncertainty in Dean's eyes. "I'm not saying it will be easy, but maybe he's too afraid to talk to you because you're not talking to _him._ You need to show him that it's ok to talk about what he went through."

"And you want me to give up drinking," Dean said softly, a hint of humor finally crowding past some of the anger in his eyes.

Taking it for the olive branch that it was, Tommy smiled but didn't comment. He let Dean take his time. The struggle was evident as he turned the bottle around and around on the marred wooden table.

After a minute, Dean took a deep breath, and said, "I'm worried about him."

"I am too."

"I've never _not_ been worried about him," Dean said, with a half-smile that disappeared in a heartbeat. "Dad wasn't always around much so I kind of raised him. I've been worrying about him since he was born and everything...everything we've gone through? I don't know _how_ not to worry about him. You got kids, so you know."

Tommy nodded, surprised that Dean was revealing this much. He'd already known they hadn't exactly had an ideal home life growing up. Even so, his heart ached as he realized for the first time exactly how difficult it had been. And how much responsibility Dean had been shouldering his entire life.

"I tried to protect him, do it all right. Tried to take out all the bullies, fix all the broken crap, and keep him safe. But I didn't." Dean shook his head, wrapping his hand around the bottle again. "I'm not afraid of much, but right now I'm terrified he's going to do something-"

Dean's voice trailed off, leaving the thought incomplete.

"I'm concerned about that myself." Tommy admitted, addressing what they all knew but didn't want to put into words. "Sam's in a very bad place right now."

"You think he's-"

"I think he's thought about it, yes."

Dean didn't look surprised; he looked completely overwhlemed. He asked quietly, "Did he say something to you?"

Tommy thought about the notebook and all the things Sam had been careful _not_ to say. Without bringing up the subject of what Sam had written, Tommy simply said, "Not anything specific. He's confused and hurting right now. But he's looking for help, Dean, so we need to be there to give it to him when he's ready to accept it."

Dean nodded, still staring at the bottle.

Tommy picked up the conversation again and said, "Which is why you're not leaving town today or anytime soon." That brought Dean's gaze up. He wasn't arguing so Tommy went on, "You're not leaving until you sober up and heal up from what you've done to yourself and until I'm satisfied _both_ of you are safe."

Expecting Dean to take offense at his comment, Tommy was pleased when he simply nodded. Dean twisted the cap back on the bottle and tapped it pointedly. "I paid for that. I'm bringing it with me."

Knowing Dean was still spoiling for a fight, Tommy ignored the comment and asked, "So you're ready to leave?"

"I'm ready to leave." Dean grabbed the whiskey and pushed himself to his feet, wavering. He went pale under the flush of fever and Tommy prepared to catch him if needed, but Dean put a hand to the table and said, "I'm fine."

Tommy refrained from contradicting him, watching as he stumbled every other step he took toward the door. He made sure he was close enough to help if needed, although he knew Dean wouldn't appreciate it. Holding the door open, he watched Dean flinch and close his eyes against the bright sunlight.

He had to applaud the kid for making it outside and five whole steps away from the front door before he threw up in a convenient patch of weeds. Bracing himself against the building with one hand, Dean white-knuckled the whiskey bottle in his other hand as he upchucked most of what he'd been drinking. Tommy crossed his arms over his chest and waited. He'd been drunk plenty of times when he was young and stupid so he didn't say anything.

Both Winchesters were doing such a good enough job of punishing themselves that he didn't need to make the effort himself. Dean pulled himself together in less time then Tommy had expected. Taking a step back, Tommy allowed Dean to straighten, as much as he was able with one arm wrapped around his belly, and begin his slow walk to the car. Walking on ahead, Tommy had the door open in time for Dean to nearly collapse into the front seat.

For a second, Tommy was sure Dean was going to lose it all over their shoes, but after a few painful swallows, he nodded and pulled his legs into the car. Closing the door, Tommy walked around the car and said a quick prayer that he'd have time to pull over before Dean needed to hurl again; he'd done a thorough job of cleaning the car before they'd left Arizona. He prided himself on his considerable patience, but Dean would be cleaning the carpets despite the hangover and the cold if he puked in the car.

Before he got into the car, Tommy checked his phone. No messages. He didn't bother texting again, just called Arla. She answered on one ring, "How is he?"

Tommy laughed, "I was about to ask you the same question."

"Well my answer is that he's not doing well." Her tone was clipped and laced with concern. "How's Dean?"

"Just puked in the bushes."

"Wonderful. You bringing him in?"

"You make it sound like I caught a fugitive."

"You sort of did, didn't you?" Arla asked, then went on before he could respond, "Are you coming straight back?"

"I was planning on it. Do you need me to pick something up on the way?"

"No."

Sensing that there was more she wasn't saying, Tommy asked, "What's going on with Sam?"

"Nothing new exactly." Arla sighed. "He's having a difficult day."

Tommy cringed as he heard the front door of the car open, followed immediately by the sound of violent vomiting. _At least he's not throwing up on the upholstery_ , Tommy thought. He returned his attention to his wife. "We'll be home soon."

"Drive safe." Arla said then disconnected the phone without another word; evidence in and of itself to her level of distress.

Tommy closed his phone and got behind the wheel. It took five more minutes before Dean straightened up and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He sat there, breathing heavily, door still open for a few more seconds, then pulled the door closed. The bottle of whiskey was gripped in his hand like security blanket.

Dean shot him a quick glance and asked, "He ok?"

"Sounds like he's about as ok as you are, minus a few shots of whiskey," Tommy replied, starting the engine.

Dean didn't respond and one look at his ashen face told Tommy it was because he was trying not to throw up again. The drive back home should have taken less than ten minutes, but took nearly twice that long because he had to pull over two times for Dean to lean out the door and throw up and one time for him to _almost_ throw up.

Tommy gripped the wheel and shook his head. Two days. Two Winchesters attempting to drink away their nightmares. This wasn't the way he'd intended to spend his vacation, but he couldn't find it in himself to complain. The kind of things these kids were going through-the things they faced on a daily basis-he didn't know how they were still standing under the load. There wasn't much he could do to alleviate the pain or reduce the pressure, but what he _could_ do was give them a safe place to recover.

He just hoped it would be enough.

* * *

 **Please don't hate me. ;) ch25 is coming along nicely, btw.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Hi everyone! Sorry for the long delay...when I can keep my schedule, I'm good, but I had some things come up the past couple weeks (including a very fun weekend with friends who have 4 kids 6 and under...i got no sleep but it was worth it haha) that sort of shot my schedule to pieces and I fell behind. :( Sorry! Hope this chapter makes up for it...**

 **I have to say a HUGE thank you to L.H. the second, cartersdaughter, and CornishGirl for the incredible assistance they all provided on this chapter. I came very close to throwing in the towel on this story to go hide under a rock and cry lol. I could NOT have gotten this done without each of them and I appreciate them SO much!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 25**_

Arla felt his fingers close around hers and she couldn't stop the tears. She let them fall, not willing to release her grasp yet. Sam leaned away from her, pressed up against the railing, but the fact he hadn't immediately pulled his hand from hers was a relief. She kept her gaze on the trees at the edge of the property, not wanting Sam to feel like she was staring at him.

It took conscious effort for Arla not to put her arms around him in a hug like she so desperately wanted to. Given his earlier reactions, she knew it would be one of the worst things she could do. He was too emotionally fragile for that kind of contact and things were far from resolved. The storm still raged under the surface; all she could hope was that she'd helped in some small way.

Despite the warmth of the day, his hand felt like ice between hers and he trembled like he was standing in a blizzard with no coat. She didn't know if it was simply the emotional aftermath of opening up to her or if he were running a fever like his brother. Either way, she remained still, knowing she needed to allow him to make the next move.

She wasn't surprised when, a minute later, he slid his hand from her grasp and wrapped his arms around himself.

Giving him the space, Arla wondered if she'd made a mistake. Pushing him had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. She knew Sam had revealed more than he'd ever meant to and she was afraid she might have pushed him _too_ far. Blinking back a few more tears, she thought about everything Sam had told her. And then she thought about everything he _hadn't_ told her and wondered how much Dean knew.

She doubted he knew how deep the issues truly ran, although he probably had a decent idea. _He knows about the world ending. He probably knows about the demon and everything else,_ she mused, _but does he know how guilty Sam feels?_

Arla assumed Dean had no idea. From their conversations, she gathered that he was focused almost completely on the present situation. Now, though, it was clear to her that the present situation was nothing but a follow-up chapter to the main event. _Whatever exactly that had been._ Back in the hospital, Dean had told her they weren't good at conversations and she should have known he hadn't been exaggerating.

"Can you check with Tommy?"

Sam's voice broke through the turmoil in her mind and she glanced over at him. He was staring off to the left, trying to stay as far away from her as possible. Arla wished she'd brought her phone outside with her because she didn't want to leave him alone out here but she knew he needed to hear his brother was safe.

"I'll go call him now," she said, getting to her feet. Her back twinged at the movement; sitting on the stone steps hadn't been her best plan. She ignored the pain, though. There'd be time for a heating pad later. Right now, there were more important things to address.

Sam didn't reply, simply nodded and let his head rest against the porch railing. Hating to leave him, Arla turned and headed into the house. Hurrying to the kitchen, she dug her phone out of her purse. It rang before she could dial and she picked up immediately; her concern for Dean suddenly outweighing her concern for Sam.

"How is he?"

She heard Tommy laugh, then he said, "I was about to ask you the same question."

"Well my answer is that he's not doing well," Arla said, too worried about both boys to find any humor in the situation. "How's Dean?"

"Just puked in the bushes."

"Wonderful." It wasn't wonderful, it was worrying. She glanced out the screen door to the front porch, uneasy feeling settling a bit when she saw Sam hadn't gone anywhere. She returned her attention to Tommy. "You bringing him in?"

"You make it sound like I caught a fugitive."

"You sort of did, didn't you?" Arla asked, then went on before he could respond, "Are you coming straight back?"

"I was planning on it. Do you need me to pick something up on the way?"

"No." _Just get back here as soon as you can._

Tommy asked, "What's going on with Sam?"

"Nothing new exactly." Arla sighed. How could she possibly sum up her conversation with Sam? It was impossible. So she oversimplified it and said, "He's having a difficult day."

"We'll be home soon," Tommy said, sounding a bit distracted.

"Drive safe." Arla hung up the phone, no less distracted than her husband.

She felt more troubled now than she had before talking to Tommy. _You should have asked if he was drinking!_ Arla chided herself. Tommy hadn't specified, and, maybe Dean hadn't been; maybe he was just sick to his stomach. Arla stared down at the phone in her hand, and considered calling Tommy back. Because the thought that Dean _might_ have made it to a liquor store, _might_ been out there drinking made _her_ sick to her stomach. Drinking alcohol was the last thing he should be doing.

Pocketing the phone, she hurried back through the house, feeling well and truly out of her element. _He tried to tell you this might not be easy._ Arla thought back to what Tommy had said when she'd been worrying about trying to find the boys in the first place. It seemed like it had been a lot longer than four days ago.

 _"We have no idea what they've been through in the past six years. They aren't the same kids we helped out that Christmas and we have no idea what's going on now."_

Which had turned out to be a massive understatement, Arla decided as she reached the front door. Stepping back onto the porch, she saw a difference in Sam. He was sitting up straight and met her eyes when she approached. He still looked ill and wrung out, but he'd pulled himself together and seemed back in control.

Arla wasn't sure if that were a good thing or not.

"Did he find Dean?"

"He did." Arla forced a smile, sitting down on the step again. Finding Dean was good news and she decided to not bring up the fact he'd been throwing up because maybe he'd just been carsick. _You hope._

Sam didn't move and he didn't look at her again, but asked, "Where?"

"Tommy didn't say."

His uncertain tone when he asked, "Are they coming back?" told her that he wasn't as in control as he was trying to be.

"They're on the way now."

Falling silent, Arla's thoughts turned back to everything Sam had told her. She'd known something terrible had happened, but now she knew it was beyond anything she'd imagined. He hadn't even needed to spell it all out for her to be able to surmise that he'd been held prisoner -tortured- by the devil himself. She didn't know how to even _begin_ to understand.

She'd thought ghosts and ghouls had been bad enough.

Shaking her head, Arla looked up at the sound of a car going by. It wasn't Tommy. Another ten minutes passed in silence before she saw Tommy turning the car down the driveway. Sam stood up before she'd even thought about moving, but he didn't go anywhere. Arla was pulling herself more slowly to her feet when she heard his question.

"What happened to him?"

Her heart jumped into her throat at both the undisguised fear in Sam's voice and the knowledge that her worries had been well founded. She looked at the car as it drew closer and she realized Dean wasn't sitting up, but leaning forward, head resting on the dashboard. She tried to come up with an answer for Sam, but he was off the porch before she had the chance.

He opened the passenger door the very instant Tommy put the car in park. Rushing toward the car, Arla met Tommy's gaze as he got out from behind the wheel. Right then, she knew they were going back to the hospital.

Reaching Sam's side, she tried to get a look at Dean, but knew she wouldn't be able to get close until Sam moved. Until Sam gave her the _opportunity_ to get close. She didn't hear either of them saying anything, and before she could ask Sam to move, he was straightening up and turning to her. There was a moment of hesitation as he stood there directly in front of his brother. Arla watched the emotions flash through his eyes and could feel his indecision.

Dean was saying something, but his voice was too soft for her to catch. Sam either didn't notice or didn't care as he stared at her. Arla waited, trying to be patient. It was difficult to know what the struggle was, but she couldn't help wondering if Sam were afraid she was going to tell Dean about their earlier conversation. That was, of course, the last thing on her mind at the moment, but given the turmoil in his eyes, she figured he was worrying about it. There was also the fact that by moving away from his brother, Sam was, once again, giving up control to an outside power. The moment his shoulders slumped, she knew he had made his decision.

"Something's wrong," Sam said, backing out of her way.

There was nothing constructive she could say since something indeed was wrong. She wasn't going to promise that everything would be alright; because she didn't know that it would be. But she knew he needed to hear something. Her heart was pounding and she didn't feel calm at all, but made sure her voice was calm when she caught his eye and said, "I'm going to take care of him."

Sam nodded and backed away further, one hand braced on the side of the car. Leaving him be, she leaned down and found Dean huddled in on himself, arms wrapped around his middle. His face was grey and sweaty; his posture and expression screamed pain. He met her gaze, giving her a quick, embarrassed smile before squeezing his eyes closed again.

"Think I screwed up," Dean whispered, the words so quiet she almost missed them entirely. His voice was raw and congested and she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

Smiling sadly, Arla rested her hand on the back of his neck, feeling the fever, and said, "Yes, you did, honey."

He forced his eyes open again and attempted to straighten, but he didn't get far. Giving up on the movement, he asked, "How's he doing?"

"He's ok." Arla figured it was only half a lie. Sam was still standing up so, in the grand scheme of things, he was ok. "Let's talk about you, shall we?"

Instead of arguing like she'd been expecting, he closed his eyes and ignored her.

Tommy leaned into the car from the open drivers side door and she looked up at him, seeing the worry she herself felt reflected in his eyes. Oddly, she also saw guilt. That was something she would have to unpack at a later time, though. She asked, "How much did he…"

"Half a bottle," Tommy answered.

Arla held her anger in check because, at the moment, she needed to focus on other things. Yelling at Dean for his stupidity would accomplish nothing. And, as dumb as it had been, she understood why he'd felt the need to run. Why he'd felt the need for a drink. Returning her attention to him, she said, "Tommy told me you threw up."

"Yeah."

"Was there any blood?"

"Not the first time."

Her heart sank at his admission and she looked up at her husband. From the look in his eyes, she knew he'd had no idea about the blood. It didn't surprise her that Dean hadn't decided to bring it up. But right now wasn't the time for that discussion. Right now they needed to make sure he was going to live long enough to _have_ that discussion. Without a way to evaluate him in the driveway, she had no way of knowing how badly he might be bleeding. All she could do was pray they would make it to the hospital in time. But she didn't dare say that aloud.

"How much, Dean?" Arla pressed, one hand resting on the back of his head, while the other reached for his wrist to check his pulse.

He tried for another smile and whispered, "Not as much."

"Not as much as at the cabin?"

"Yeah."

"He needs the hospital, Tommy," Arla said, heart in her throat. "Now."

Tommy nodded, getting back behind the wheel. She ran her hand through Dean's hair, and said, "Just hang on and we'll get you taken care of soon."

Dean nodded, wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and pushed himself upright a few inches. He paused with a grimace of pain, but said, "Sam doesn't need to come. Stay with him?"

Arla knew she wasn't really needed; Tommy could drive to the ER and the doctors there were going to be able to help Dean more than she could. Maybe staying away from the hospital would be the best thing for Sam. But she wasn't going to take the decision from him. As far as she was concerned, he was getting to make any and all choices for himself from now on; even down to the simplest things like whether or not he wanted salt on his eggs in the morning. Too much had been taken from him already; she wasn't taking anything else.

"Dean, I'll talk to him, but if he doesn't want to stay here, I'm not making him."

"Sam." Dean's voice deepened, regaining some of its strength and she almost jumped in surprise. She _wasn't_ surprised that he'd decided to take matters into his own hands, though.

Movement at her side had her straightening up as Sam took a step forward and asked, "What?"

Dean sat up the rest of the way, keeping his arms pressed against his stomach while he tried to get a look at his brother. Arla moved aside to allow Sam to get closer. She couldn't decide which of the two looked more worried.

"Stay here," Dean said, tone forceful and gruff even though he didn't look like he could back his order up if he tried.

"Dean-"

"I mean it. You don't need to come. It's not-"

"Not what?" Sam's voice rose, the too calm facade cracking. "Not a big deal? Not a problem?"

Arla wanted to be on the road by now, but interrupting didn't seem like a good plan so she held her breath. Worried about the situation escalating, she looked at Dean and realized he seemed more surprised by Sam's response than she was. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Some of the anger went out of Sam's tone when he spoke again, "Don't tell me what to do."

He moved away and got into the backseat before Dean could answer. Arla looked at Dean and he was shaking his head, eyes pleading with her to do something. She knew most of it had to do with his understandable concern about how Sam would handle being back at the hospital; a concern she shared. But that wasn't all. He was embarrassed and didn't want his brother around.

Arla knew nothing she could say would allay his worry, so she patted him on the shoulder and didn't try. Dean wanted to argue more, that was obvious, but he kept his mouth shut, no doubt realizing he didn't get a say in this. She closed the door carefully and hurried around to the other side of the car. Getting into the back seat, she exchanged a look with Tommy in the rear view mirror as he started the car.

They needed to talk, but that was going to have to wait. Settling in for the trip, Arla took a peek at Sam. His eyes were closed and he was using his right hand to squeeze his left in a gesture she had seen once before, in the ER. He stopped almost immediately, shaking his head, and opening his eyes, hands relaxing. It crossed her mind that maybe she should have backed Dean on this. Especially given their earlier conversation, Arla wasn't sure Sam would be able to handle being back at the hospital.

But there wasn't anything she could do about it now.

* * *

As Tommy drove toward the hospital, Dean had a few moments to spend thinking about his poor life choices. The latest of which had been a very poor choice. A bad idea in all capital letters.

BAD. IDEA.

Dean had known he was making a bad decision before taking the first sip of whiskey at that bar. Known before leaving the Penders' house, actually. But he hadn't been able to think straight; the _this is a terrible idea_ floated on the periphery of his mind, but all he could think about was getting away.

Getting a drink.

So he'd walked out the door and tried to get as far away as possible. Not easy when his head hurt and he was exhausted and sneezing and miserable and stranded in an unfamiliar town. On the way back from the hospital the previous day, he'd paid attention, though. Noting where the bars and liquor stores were.

Just in case.

It had been a long, difficult walk to get to the main road and he'd considered turning around several times. But he'd kept going against his better judgment. He'd told Sam he needed to deal with it, but, as he stomped away from the house and the people inside who-for some reason-seemed to care about them, Dean knew _he_ was the one not dealing with it.

Any of it.

And, instead of dealing with it, he'd kept going and allowed his need for a drink to be his motivation, his _excuse,_ for walking away from his brother.

Dead on his feet by the time he'd hit the main road, Dean had doubted he would have any luck hitching a ride into town. He'd wondered who in their right mind would stop to pick him up. And then he'd wondered who in his right mind would get in the car with the ten ton hulk behind the wheel. There'd been a _Born to Kill_ tat on the guy's right bicep and, as big as his bicep was, the statement could have been on a billboard. The first dozen words the guy had said were equally divided between curse words and non-curse words.

Obviously he hadn't been in his right mind because when the guy had asked if he needed a lift, Dean had nodded and got into the car. And then he'd found his way, not to the nearest bars, but to an obscure one the beast with the nose ring and the fuzzy dice hanging from his rear-view mirror suggested. Giving the guy ten bucks for the ride left him with just over thirty total dollars to his name.

He'd walked into the bar and now he was on his way back to the hospital.

BAD. IDEA.

Taking the first sip of whiskey had left him bent in half, breathless and blinded with the pain. It should have been enough to convince him to stop. But while he'd tried to catch his breath and tell himself he wasn't _really_ on fire from the inside out, he couldn't stop thinking about the things Sam had said. The things Cas had done. How much he missed Bobby and how much he needed to kill Dick Roman.

Every single sip had been like a flame burning straight through him but he hadn't been able to quit. Because it dulled the pain in his mind and heart even as it ripped his stomach apart. And that kind of pain he could take. Could accept. Embrace. Of course, it hadn't taken long for him to realize that maybe he didn't want to embrace this sort of pain after all.

Because it _freakin'_ hurt!

About to give up, he'd stubbornly sat there pretending he still wanted to be drinking what he was pretty sure was actual battery acid. Because Tommy'd shown up and started a conversation. A conversation about everything he didn't want to deal with or think about. It hadn't been the the physical pain that had convinced him he should leave the bar.

Hearing Tommy give voice to his darkest fear had sent a bolt of pain through him that was far sharper than the whiskey burn in his gut. Tommy had been making such an effort to support Sam and the fact he'd been able to see how serious things were with his brother was worrisome. Because it meant Sam wasn't able to keep it hidden anymore.

Admitting he was wrong and admitting he needed help were two of the most difficult things for him to do. But nodding when Tommy told him flat out that he wasn't going to let _either_ of them leave anytime soon had been admitting both.

So Dean had left the bar, every mile they drove emphasizing how bad the pain was. Throwing up a mouthful of blood the last time Tommy had pulled over for him was probably something he should have mentioned, but by then they were close enough to the house he figured it could wait.

He needed to see Sam first.

Of course, Sam yanking open the car door while he wasn't even able to straighten fully hadn't been the best way to reunite. Dean had watched the mix of relief and worry in Sam's eyes change to pure fear in a split second and he hadn't been able to say anything. He'd left the bar to try to help Sam, not make things worse. _Probably should have thought about that before deciding to go out drinking in the first place._

But it was far too late to change anything now. And the burning in his stomach provided enough distraction from his regret to allow him to focus on the fact that they couldn't get to the hospital fast enough. He'd tried to convince Arla to keep Sam away, but lost that argument twice over. Didn't mean he wasn't worrying about the situation, though. The _last_ thing Sam needed right now was to face the hospital again. It was out of Dean's control, though, and he wanted to believe Sam's show of stubbornness had been a good sign. But he knew better. It was a show of stubbornness and that was all. It had taken him one glance to know Sam wasn't doing any better than he had been _before_ Dean had left the house.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Far too soon, and yet not soon enough, they were at the ER. Dean was at least more alert than he had been the last time. He answered all his own questions this time and was far less hazy about the process as he was jabbed with needles and pumped with fluids and assessed every two seconds. If they were the same nurses as the other night, he wouldn't have known; the memory of that awful night was nothing but a blur and it might not be such a bad thing, he decided.

Peripherally, he was aware of Arla's presence, but somewhere along the lines, the most wonderful nurse in the entire world had given him something in one of his IVs (there was one in each arm again, Dean noted with annoyance), that took the pain away, _mostly_ , and he began to have a little trouble focusing. When some of the rush around him began to slow, Dean realized he had no idea how long he'd been in the room. Arla pulled a chair closer and sat down next to him.

Blinking a few times to clear some of the fog, Dean took another look around the room. And then the fog evaporated and he realized someone was missing. Throat tight, he asked, "Where is he?"

"Tommy's with him," Arla said, sounding tired. She also sounded like she wasn't telling him everything.

"With him _where_?" Dean prompted, knowing the answer probably wasn't good.

"They're sitting outside. He didn't make it through the door."

Dean swore and he didn't do it under his breath. He pushed himself up another inch, hands fisted and every instinct in him telling him that he needed to fix this. But he felt lightheaded and the pain was still burning even if it wasn't quite as sharp as it had been earlier and he didn't need to be told to stay put. He wouldn't make it far and he didn't want to admit it, but he knew he didn't have a choice; he needed the medications. He needed help.

Running his hand over his mouth, Dean felt nausea bubbling up, but it was muted by the meds. He shook his head and said, "He never should have come-"

"Maybe not, but it was _his_ choice, not ours," Arla cut him off. He wasn't sure if she were angry or worried to a degree he hadn't observed before. "As difficult as this is for him right now, he needs to be here with you. Given everything you've _both_ gone through, I don't think leaving him sitting at home worrying himself to death over what's going on here would do him any good either. He'll come inside when he's ready."

Dean understood her point, but couldn't stop his _own_ worrying. He asked, "Did he-"

"He said he needed a minute. That's all. He was ok, Dean."

Relaxing somewhat, Dean knew she was telling him the truth. Even so, regardless of how Sam had handled the situation, he also knew things still weren't right. "He's not ok."

A tiny smile lit her face and Arla said, "Neither are you. We've had this conversation a few times already, haven't we? It's not easy, but you need to admit that both of you need some more time before either of you will truly be ok again."

His last bit of fight slowly faded away, leaving him slumping into the pillows and feeling more vulnerable than he had in a long time. It was dangerous to allow people in; to allow people to get close to him. Dangerous for everyone involved. But now, studying Arla as she sat at his bedside _again,_ Dean realized that sometimes it was worth taking the chance. He felt safe with Arla and Tommy. And safe wasn't something he felt very often these days.

Relaxing thanks to pharmaceutical assistance and the reassuring presence of Arla Pender, Dean drifted off without meaning to. He came awake to Arla's soft voice calling his name. Despite the drugs and exhaustion, he woke up fast and scrubbed at his eyes until he could see more than blurs.

"Tommy texted and said they're coming inside."

Dean nodded, relieved and worried about the news.

Arla seemed to sense his mixed feelings because she added, "Tommy said he was doing fine."

"Doing fine now, maybe." Dean snorted, looking around the impersonal room at the supplies and equipment. It was making _him_ nervous. Who knew how Sam was going to handle it? Dean shook his head and said, "He won't be fine when he gets in here."

"I think it's going to be ok, Dean," Arla said, with a gentle smile. "He's not as sick or as overwhelmed as he was the last time we were here. He just needed to take a breath and prepare himself."

Hoping she was right, Dean asked, "Could you guys give us some time when he gets here?"

"Certainly." Arla set her phone on the edge of the bed. "You can call Tommy when you're ready for us to come back, or if you boys need anything."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," Arla said, getting to her feet and looking beyond the open glass doors of the room. Glancing back at him, she added quietly, "Try to be patient. With yourself and with your brother. Ok?"

Nodding, Dean swallowed hard and tried to remember the last time he'd been patient.

And then he caught sight of Tommy and his brother in the hall. Tommy gave him a smile, but waited in the hall as Arla stepped out to meet them. She said something to Sam but he didn't look like he'd heard her; maybe he was ignoring her. Or maybe he hadn't needed to respond, Dean decided, because Arla didn't look bothered or concerned. She waited until Sam was inside the room, then smiled and turned to Tommy, leading him away.

Dean was suddenly nervous and wished he hadn't been so quick to dismiss Arla. He wasn't sure what Sam needed and was even less sure of his ability to give it to him. Sam briefly met his eyes and it looked like he didn't know whether to be angry or scared or worried. All three emotions settled on simmer as Sam pulled the chair Arla had been sitting in away from the bedside. It thumped against the wall and Sam dropped into it, arms across his chest.

 _So maybe he did decide on anger..._

Dean figured his brother had a right to be angry. What he'd done had been stupid and selfish and dangerous.

The thing was-it had helped. No, it hadn't done his stomach any favors, but it _had_ helped nearly everything else. And that might not be such a good thing, Dean had to admit. _You have a drinking problem, Dean._ Tommy's words had startled him and made him angry at the time. Now, though, they haunted him because Dean had a scary feeling Tommy was right.

Forcing himself to focus on the here and now, Dean pushed himself up a few more inches in the bed and said, "Sam."

"Don't." Sam's response was immediate and sharp. He was staring across the bed at the opposite wall.

Sighing, Dean knew he was only going to aggravate him when he asked, "Don't what?"

"I'm not ready to talk to you yet."

"Then why're you here?" Dean asked, too tired to snap at Sam like he wanted to.

"Where else would I be?" Sam asked, his voice growing softer with every word and his eyes still pointedly avoiding Dean's gaze. "There's nowhere I can go."

He _did_ have somewhere he could go, but Dean doubted pointing it out would go over well. Sam could have stayed at the house; no one had forced him to come. Dean bit his tongue to keep from saying something he'd regret. They were both on edge and saying the wrong thing now could be a serious mistake.

Dean was spared from a prolonged, awkward silence when the nurse walked back into the room and shot him a too bright smile. She was bubbly and easy on the eyes, but her overly friendly demeanor kind of made him miss Matt and his sarcasm.

"How are you feeling now?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts. Dean caught her sparing a quick glance at Sam.

"Fine," he answered, taking his own opportunity to look over at his brother. Sam was watching the nurse and paying attention to everything.

"Oh good! The pain medication is helping, I hope."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, trying to focus on her. He wanted to keep the conversation and details to a minimum and get rid of the nurse as soon as possible.

Thankfully, she started checking his vital signs and tapping away at the computer which kept her quiet. He let her do what she wanted and, once she'd hung another bag of whatever it was they were pumping into him, she left the room.

Dean stared up at the three bags hanging from the IV pole next to him and tried, but failed, to remember what the doctor had told him earlier about the medications he was being given. He'd been in too much pain to care about anything. All he'd been able to think about was _this hurts!_ and _what the hell was I thinking?_

Settling back against the pillows with a sigh, Dean shot another peek at Sam. He was staring back this time, but his gaze quickly drifted away. Dean sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said, not specifying what he was sorry about. There were _many_ things he was sorry for right now.

"I know," Sam answered, accepting the apology without requiring clarification.

Knowing this would be the perfect opportunity to have a conversation with his brother like Tommy had encouraged him to do, he was completely at a loss. Sam was at least talking to him, but Dean had no clue what to say.

"How bad is it?" Sam asked, still staring at the floor.

"How bad is what?" Dean frowned, thrown by the apparent change of topic.

"How bad's the damage you did to yourself this time?"

Dean knew he was going to get nowhere with his brother if he didn't answer Sam's question. So he shrugged, "It wasn't good, but I'll live. More meds, more fluids and," he reached out with one finger to tug the paperwork sitting on the bedside table closer to him so he could reread the instructions, "something called a bland diet. Sounds delicious."

Sam didn't find that amusing. He remained silent and didn't look up. Knowing he was tired and upset, Dean almost left him alone. But after everything Tommy had said to him earlier, he knew couldn't. He didn't want this to be the time he sat back and enjoyed the fact that _Sam_ was the one who didn't want to talk.

Because he was afraid of what might happen if he continued to brush it off.

Dean sighed, rubbing his aching head as he thought back to the moment Cas had "shifted" the crazy. To the moment they'd walked out of the hospital. To when they'd stood around the car, having a brief conversation that hadn't included Sam flinching at things that weren't there, or listening to a voice that wasn't real. Right then, at that moment, he'd thought maybe they'd dodged the bullet.

And then he thought about the _next_ moment when they'd sat down in the car and everything had shattered into pieces around them; when he'd begun to realize things weren't going to be as easy to fix as he'd hoped. Six days and two hospital visits later, Dean wasn't sure anything would ever be easy again.

He still hadn't figured out a good way to start a conversation by the time Sam spoke up again.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Sam met his eyes this time and his tone was unwavering as he said, "I'm never going to want to talk about it and I'm _not going_ to talk about it. With you or with anyone else. So you can all stop trying."

Either Sam was reading his mind, or something had happened while Dean had been out drinking that was making him lay down the ground rules now. Making a mental note to find out from Arla what had happened, Dean started to respond to Sam's statement, but didn't get the chance.

"If you think talking is the answer, then you should have left me in that hospital with the shrink and the drugs and the psychotherapy," Sam continued, his gaze challenging.

Punching something sounded like a great plan right now. Anger had his entire body tensing, sending sharp bolts of pain stabbing through him as he tried to form words. Sam, as usual, didn't give him the chance. He just kept plowing ahead without pausing.

"You didn't want to talk after you went to hell and I didn't understand then, but I do now," Sam said, tone softening.

The reminder of his time below turned Dean's stomach even more than the ill-advised alcohol had done.

Some of the anger and strength seemed to be fading, leaving Sam slumped against the wall and looking half-asleep. "Talking isn't going to change anything or erase what happened. So everyone needs to stop asking me. Everyone needs to leave me alone."

"Sam—"

"Bring it up again and I swear I'll walk out the door, leave you with Arla and Tommy, and I won't be back till you sober up."

Dean's mouth was dry. Because he knew Sam meant it. Every word of it. Even if he didn't appear up to moving an inch, he'd be out the door before Dean could hope to stop him. And the thought terrified him.

Somehow, when he'd been talking to Tommy, the idea of facing up to Sam and having a conversation had seemed like a good idea. Like something that might actually do some good. But even though he'd started off with an apology, things were only getting worse.

Sam was shutting him out before he even had the chance to _begin_ the conversation that neither of them wanted to have. And he was shutting the Penders out too, Dean noticed, which again left him wishing he'd asked Arla for the details about what had gone on back at the house while he'd been out drinking.

"Sam," he said, taking a chance by treading uncertain waters, "what happened after I left?"

His question stunned Sam into silence right as he was opening his mouth to say speak. Breathing unsteady, Sam stared at him with a shocked, hunted expression and Dean knew right then that Arla must have said something, done something to make Sam this defensive. Arla would never do anything purposefully harmful or cruel, but obviously _something_ had happened.

When Sam didn't answer him, Dean tried again, "What happened?"

Sam shook his head, hands on the edge of the chair as he leaned slightly forward and stared at the tile like he was contemplating being sick. There weren't too many shades paler he could go before he was whiter than the ceiling. It took a few seconds before Sam responded.

Still staring at the floor, he finally whispered, "It's not important."

"Yes it is," Dean said quietly, hating himself a thousand times over for walking out like he had.

"Why'd you leave?"

Dean wasn't sure if Sam changed the subject because he didn't want to answer the question or if he were simply too tired to keep his own thoughts straight. Either way, Dean decided he should go along with it. He said, "I just needed to get out. You know? I was climbing the walls, man."

Sam didn't answer, but slowly pushed himself upright until he was slumped back into the chair again. He met Dean's eyes and the anger was gone. All that remained was complete resignation. And understanding. Dean thought about the fact that only two nights ago, Sam had been the one out drinking his problems away. It wasn't the kind of thing he wanted Sam to understand; but it was kind of nice to know he did.

Dean counted to twenty and tried to figure out what he could say next that might keep Sam from walking out the door. He didn't look angry anymore, but the hopelessness in his eyes didn't make Dean feel any better. By the time he'd counted to forty, Dean still didn't have a clue what to say. Sam saved him the trouble.

"Did you really get a virus on my computer?" Sam asked, somehow finding a way to throw them even further off topic.

"Seriously?" Dean almost laughed. "Are you seriously asking me that now? It's been like a week! I wasn't even sure you knew what planet you were on when I said that. You had the computer up earlier today-"

"It was slow."

Dean shook his head, "You're kidding me, right? It's like you suddenly have the attention span of a two year old."

"I don't know," Sam shook his head and let out a shaky laugh. He leaned his elbow against the counter to the left and pressed his hand to his forehead. Dean almost hoped he'd fall asleep right there because he looked so drained it wasn't funny. Sam closed his eyes and mumbled, "I don't even know anymore. I'm so tired nothing makes any sense."

"You need to sleep," Dean said, trying not to sound like he was making it an order.

Sam nodded, but didn't reply.

Dean let his head fall back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. The pain wasn't gone, he felt like one wrong move would lead to vomiting, and he still couldn't breathe out of one side of his nose. But the worst of it was that his mind was reeling and he was too keyed up to sleep. Tilting his head, he stared at his brother and wondered if maybe Sam wasn't right.

Talking _didn't_ change anything. Talking didn't erase anything. And it never helped, either. Talking hadn't changed or helped anything after Dad had died. Hadn't changed or helped anything after Dean had come back from hell and it wasn't going to help now or change the fact that Cas had betrayed them and Bobby was dead. Dean knew Tommy and Arla were doing their best to help them. But they didn't understand. Not really. And he was glad they didn't.

Watching Sam sit there, rubbing away at what had to be the worst headache of his life by now, Dean decided he was going to have to tell the Penders to back off. He had a feeling they were inadvertently doing more harm than good.

If Sam didn't want to talk, then Dean wasn't going to make him.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed! Did it play out as you had expected?**

 **PS..I am dropping the song lyric chapter titles because...I really should have thought of it before haha, but it probably isn't exactly kosher to be using them like this without permission. So I'll eventually edit them all out as best I can and you'll just have to listen to the amazing song "Brother" by NEEDTOBREATHE and you can fill in the blanks from there lol. :)**

 **PPS other songs that make me cry and are on my spotify playlist as I write this story include "One Last Breath" by Creed (Sam's mindset), "Used to" by Daughtry (such a perfect song that works for so much of the actual series itself), "Savin' Me" and "I'd come for you" both by Nickelback and "Everything Goes Black" by Skillet (holy cow this song...it kills me! it feels so right for the way the boys are struggling in this story, but also feels perfect for so many parts of the actual series). Music is so important to me and it really helps fuel my writing.**

 **Also! That last episode! Oh my gosh! Cry all the tears! ok...i'll shut up now lol. Thank you for reading!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Apologies for the long delay! Wound up going out of town last weekend which threw my writing productivity off haha!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 26**_

Tommy had experienced plenty of tense, uncomfortable car trips in his life. At six years old he had slouched down in the foot-wells behind the front seats, eyes wide and heart pounding, listening to his parents shout at each other. It hadn't been every trip, but it had been most trips.

 _Most days, actually._

When the shouting had turned really scary and loud, Erik had held his hand and whispered to him about the baseball game they were going to in a few weeks, or had quizzed him on his spelling words until he could almost ignore the argument in the front seat. Erik had always promised him things would be ok; things would get better. And they had.

After their dad walked out the door one hot June morning and never came back.

Becoming a parent himself had provided him with plenty of tense, uncomfortable car trips when one or both of the twins had been angry about one thing or another. He'd experienced tense car rides on the way to the station with cursing, dangerous criminals in the rear of the police cruiser, threatening him and his family. And there'd been a tense trip a few years back on Christmas Eve when he'd driven two unknown young men to a hospital after watching a girl go up in flames in front of him.

The two young men weren't unknown to him anymore, but they were as sick as they'd been that Christmas; if in different ways. And the trip this time had been just as tense as the one six years ago.

He'd caught Arla's eyes when he glanced in the rear view mirror. She looked terrible; on the verge of tears. And he couldn't blame her. Every mile he'd driven back toward the house, his own level of concern had risen. He knew Dean's drinking had been a terrible idea, but it had only been the last mile or so that he'd begun to berate himself for not having taken that bottle of whiskey away as soon as he'd arrived.

Hearing Dean admit to Arla he'd thrown up blood again had solidified the guilty feeling gnawing at him the entire time.

After the silent trip to the hospital, Arla had taken charge of getting Dean into the emergency room while he'd found himself waiting outside with Sam. All Sam had said was that he needed a minute. His voice had been steady, but Tommy had seen the uneasiness in his eyes. So he'd waved Arla on ahead and easily guided Sam to take a seat on a low brick wall several yards from the entrance.

They'd been sitting there without saying a single word for a good twenty minutes now. Tommy didn't interrupt the silence, knowing that Sam needed the quiet more than he needed any empty words of reassurance. Tommy was watching a young couple walking into the main entrance with a huge pink teddy bear and a bunch of balloons when Sam pushed himself to his feet. Tommy rose too as Sam started walking toward the ER entrance.

Quickly texting Arla a heads up, Tommy followed Sam into the ER. Sam hesitated once inside and Tommy looked around, uncertain which direction to go. Then his phone buzzed and he had a room number from Arla. Without saying anything, he headed toward the room and Sam followed closely.

Reaching the room, he saw Arla was on her way out and he smiled at her and Dean. Arla paused and, as he walked by, told Sam that Dean was ok. Sam didn't respond, but Arla smiled and waited until he was in the room, before turning her back on the room.

Her smile faded and words weren't necessary for him to know how distraught she was.

Tommy squeezed her hand and pulled her through the busy hallways, past the main waiting room, and into one of the small consultation rooms. They were all unoccupied, so he decided to take advantage of the privacy. When she turned into his embrace and he felt the first tears fall against his chest, Tommy knew it had been the right decision.

"Baby," he whispered, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "Talk to me. How is he?"

It took a couple seconds before she was able to gather herself enough to speak. Lifting her head and pulling away, she whispered, "He's stable."

"Good." Relief flooded him. Given how upset she was, he'd feared the worst. "They gonna admit him?"

"I don't think so. We got here in time and it looks like he didn't do as much damage as he could have. They've got him on IV medications again; ranitidine for the ulcer, more antibiotics and fluids," Arla listed it all off clinically, "something for the pain-"

"So he's going to be ok?"

Arla nodded, not meeting his eyes.

Tommy tilted her chin up. He brushed away some of the tears and said, "That's good news."

She nodded again, but didn't look any less troubled.

Guiding her to a chair, he sat down next to her and asked, "What else?"

"What?" she asked, wiping at her tears and meeting his eyes for the first time.

"What else is going on? You're still upset. If he's going to be ok-"

"It's not…" Arla interrupted him, then trailed off without finishing her thought.

"It's not what?" he asked, sensing that Dean's situation wasn't the only thing worrying her. Remembering how off she'd sounded on the phone earlier, he asked, "What happened with Sam while we were gone?"

Tears welled up again, but she blinked them away. "You had been gone for awhile before he came downstairs. He was looking for Dean. I found him on the front steps."

"And? Did he talk to you?"

Arla nodded. "One thing lead to another and he wound up talking a lot more than I expected and probably more than he meant to."

"That's good." Tommy smiled even though he could tell things must not have gone well. "He needs to talk."

"Maybe so but I'm not sure I helped anything." Arla shook her head, squeezing his hand as she continued, "He's so on edge, Tommy, and what he went through-it's so much worse than I ever dreamed."

"What did he tell you?"

Arla's voice was a horrified whisper, "He told me that he let the devil out and almost ended the world."

It made his heart skip a beat.

He listened to her recount everything that had happened while he'd been gone. A chill ran down his back as his thoughts returned to the notebook he'd found in Sam's backpack.

 _Dean,_

 _I need you to know I'm sorry. About all of it. Dad's death. Trusting Ruby. Not saving you from hell. The demon blood. Letting Lucifer out, starting the apocalypse. Everything I did to you and Bobby when I didn't have my soul._

Even though he'd believed what Sam had written was truth, it had still seemed so far-fetched, his mind hadn't been able to comprehend it. But now that Sam had apparently told Arla the same thing, there was no way to ignore it or sweep it under the rug anymore.

"You don't look surprised." Arla frowned, then her eyes widened. "He already told you didn't he?"

"Not exactly," Tommy said, then told her about the notebook. He watched the shock sweep over her as he told her about the unfamiliar scribbles, the fragmented sentences, and the way Sam had written out the possibility of his own death.

"You should have told me sooner!" Arla said, fear overlaid with frustration. "Tommy, this is serious!"

"I know it's serious. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to scare you."

It sounded weak to his own ears, but it was the truth. Arla took a deep breath, then nodded.

He continued, "It all seemed so unbelievable and you were so worried about both of them. I thought it might be best to keep it to myself; especially since I'd invaded Sam's privacy by reading it in the first place."

"You're right," Arla agreed. "You are. It was something we weren't meant to see. But now he told me about the devil and the apocalypse. Hasn't he talked to you about any of this when you were sitting outside?"

Tommy thought back to their conversations and said, "Not exactly. He hasn't wanted to talk about what actually happened to him. We've talked around it some, and he knows I saw the notebook."

"How'd he take that?"

"Not well."

"Does his brother know about what he wrote?"

"No." Tommy settled back in the chair and tried to reassure her with a smile. "But I'm glad Sam opened up to you even a little. He needs to address what he's gone through."

"Does he?" Arla shook her head, her eyes still tearful. "What good is going to come of it? Tommy, if you'd seen him...I'm not sure it _is_ doing him good to talk about it. Maybe it would be better for him to just move on."

"And that's fine." Tommy nodded. "If that's what works for him and if that's what he needs. I'm just not sure that it is. Because he _isn't_ moving on yet. He's trying to pull himself together, but I think it's more of a front he's putting on than actually any improvement. The fact that he opened up like he did to you makes me feel like he _does_ need to talk about this, as much as it scares him. He's holding on so tightly but, judging by the way he lost control with you earlier, I'd say he's one wrong move from breaking down."

"I know." Arla stared out into the hallway for a moment, then added, "What I still don't know is how to help him."

"There isn't any one thing that's going to help him, Arla." Tommy leaned closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "It's going to take time and it's going to take him being willing to accept the help he needs. That's where I think we're running into the biggest issue. He knows he needs help; he's been reaching out for it in fact, but so far he keeps retreating before he makes any progress."

Sighing, Arla said, "Even as angry as he is, I think it's easier to talk to Dean than it is to talk to Sam."

"I agree. Neither of them _want_ to talk, but Dean is so angry that, when provoked, he explodes and everything comes out whether he wants it to or not. Sam just shuts down."

"He does. He didn't want to talk to me at all earlier, and once he had, it was like a switch was flipped. I thought at first that maybe I'd helped, but now I think I pushed him too far," Arla said, her voice a whisper. "He feels so guilty about what happened."

"About letting the devil out?"

"Yes."

"I'm sure there were extenuating circumstances. He's only telling one side of it. I doubt he alone was responsible for whatever happened."

They were silent for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts as they struggled to come to grips with something so surreal; so unbelievable. Finally, Arla looked up to him and said, "The other day you...you said you thought there was a chance they both might be suicidal."

"Yes."

"I think you're right." Arla held his gaze and said, "After talking to Sam earlier...I'm not sure if he thinks he deserves to die or if he just _wants_ to."

"I'm guessing he doesn't even know." Tommy smiled sadly and asked, "Did he say something specific?"

"No. It was just...how hopeless he looked. Do you think he's planning to do something?"

"Honestly? I don't think so. Not right now, anyway." He saw the question in her eyes and added, "I think he's in a dangerous place, yes, and it's certainly not outside the realm of possibility that he might consider an attempt at some point. When he wrote those things in the notebook he was in the midst of the hallucinations, but even though that's apparently over, he's still not thinking clearly."

"This isn't something we can ignore, Tommy." Arla shook her head. "He needs help."

Tommy knew she was right; knew where she was coming from, but he also knew it wasn't as simple as that. He said, "They're both dealing with a lot of loss and pain right now. Not to mention severe trauma. Neither of them are handling any of it well. But this isn't something we can take to the medical community for help."

"Why not?" Arla pulled away from him and he could see the turmoil in her eyes. "We can't bury our heads in the sand when he needs-"

"Arla, we can't force him; either of them. Besides, what do you think would happen if he _did_ agree to see someone? He starts talking honestly about what he went through? They're not going to understand like we do."

"I don't even understand! Not really."

"Neither do I," Tommy admitted with a smile. "But Dean _does_. And I think he's the only one who can get through to Sam because he's the only one who's been there with him the entire time; the only one who knows exactly what happened. We had a chat at the bar earlier and Dean's aware of how serious the situation is."

"Clearly he wasn't aware of how serious his own situation was," Arla said ruefully.

"No, he wasn't. Like I said, neither of them are handling any of this well. Dean doesn't know what to do to help his brother or himself so he went for the only coping mechanism he's got right now. He learned his lesson the hard way and I think between this trip to the ER and our talk, he's going to get his head screwed on straight again."

"I hope so. Because I don't think anything we're doing is helping."

"Hey." Tommy touched her cheek and shook his head. "Don't say that. We're not getting it all right, I know that. I screwed up by not stopping Dean as soon as I saw him drinking that whiskey. I never should have let him keep drinking. But where do you think they'd be right now if you hadn't hunted them down that night Sam called?"

"Tommy-"

"Seriously. What do you think would have happened to them?"

Arla stared at him for a long moment before she said, "I don't know for sure. But they both needed the hospital that night. If I hadn't found them-"

"They could be dead," Tommy said with finality. "They might have gotten themselves to the hospital soon enough, or they might have picked themselves up and kept pushing until they got into a car wreck because neither of them were safe to drive. Or Dean could have bled out without either of them even knowing what was happening and, in his current state of mind, I don't think Sam could have handled it. So whatever we're screwing up is still better than the possible alternatives, right?"

She nodded, closing her eyes for a few seconds before looking at him again and saying, "I'll concede it might be a bad idea to attempt to get him to talk to a professional. But we still can't ignore this, Tommy."

"We're not going to," Tommy promised her. "I told Dean they weren't going anywhere until I was convinced they were both safe. I meant it and he knows I did. And he knows _why_ I said it. The best thing we can do is give them a safe place to stay while they get their feet under them again. It's not quite the vacation we had planned, but I will gladly give it up. If anyone deserves a vacation, it's those two boys."

Arla's smile was brief, then she moved closer for a kiss. She asked, "Do you remember how suspicious you were when we first found them?"

"Yes," he grinned. "Who would have thought we'd be sitting here today worrying about them like they're our own kids?"

Her smile faded as she leaned closer and tucked herself under his arm. She said, "I am worried. Very worried."

"Someone needs to worry about them." He kissed her forehead and held her more closely as he stared out into the hallway. His heart felt as heavy as he knew hers must be when he added, "Someone needs to _care_ about them."

* * *

He was freezing.

Sam knew hospitals were always cold, but the chill he felt transcended the artificial coolness of the air conditioning. He was cold to his very soul. The jacket he wished he were wearing right now would have done something for the goosebumps on his arms but wouldn't have helped anything else.

Voices drew his attention back to the present and he lifted his head from his hand. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since his conversation with Dean. Groggy and shivering, Sam opened his eyes and stared at the floor and tried to sort the steady hum of the voices into something resembling words. After a moment, he realized a nurse was doing another assessment, talking in hushed tones to Dean. The reason they were in the ER in the first place flooded back to him and he shifted his gaze from the floor to the scene in front of him.

The nurse was just finishing up when he managed to get his eyes to focus. She didn't look his way, but softly said to Dean, "Dr. Maguire will be right in to see you."

Dean nodded and then the nurse was gone. Dean's eyes slid closed and Sam didn't like what he saw. Even disregarding the medical equipment with the flashing lights and the annoying alarms, Dean looked sick. _Really_ sick. He was lying back against the pillows, skin flushed and sweaty, and he was too still. As usual, the niggling worry that what he was seeing wasn't real crept up on Sam, but he kept his breathing in check and told himself it was real until he believed it.

"Sammy?"

He heard his name from somewhere in the darkness. Darkness? Sam opened his eyes to the same cold, too bright hospital room, not even remembering when he'd closed his eyes. It took effort, but he lifted his head and looked up at Dean.

"You with me?" Dean asked.

There was something off about his voice. It was too cautious, too controlled. Like something was wrong. Sam stared back at him, wondering why he sounded like he did. He wanted to say something. To tell Dean he was fine. But his mouth was dry, his head hurt and the words refused to form.

"Talk to me. What's going...what're you seeing?" Dean asked, sounding less controlled and more worried. He pushed himself upright in the bed and the stillness from earlier was gone. Now it looked like he was planning to jump up and come across the room.

"I'm-" Sam was surprised at how raw his voice sounded. He shook his head again, trying to figure out what Dean meant, why he'd asked that. He frowned and said, "I'm not."

"Not?" Dean prompted, one hand pressed to his stomach while the other gripped the bed rail. "Not seeing anything?"

Sam shook his head, then decided he was never going to shake his head again because it aggravated the headache and made him dizzy.

Dean didn't look convinced, but stopped moving. "Then why're you doing that?"

Following the direction of Dean's pointing finger, Sam looked down at his own hands and realized he was squeezing his left palm. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing it. Releasing his grip, Sam rubbed his hands on his jeans and looked up at Dean.

"Sam?"

"I'm ok." There. Finally a sentence that made sense.

"Like hell you are," Dean said quietly, and he didn't sound angry. He sounded _sorry._

Sam wanted to reassure him. It had just been a fallback to an old habit. There was no denying being back in a hospital was making him nervous, but he _was_ ok. Tired but ok. Not seeing anything, not hearing anything-

And then his heart rate increased and he could feel it pounding in his ears. Because it was too quiet. No radio, no tv, no conversation. Nothing. Soft background noise from beyond the room, but nothing else. No voice in his head.

 _No voice in my head._

Sam knew he should be glad. Knew it was a good thing. What he didn't know was why the silence made him want to scream.

Grateful that _he_ wasn't hooked up to a heart monitor because it would have been alarming by now, Sam tried to tamp down on the growing panic before Dean noticed. He was spared from further conversation when a doctor walked into the room. Sam forced himself to sit up straighter. The doctor gave him a cursory glance, and Sam remembered him from the last time they'd been in the ER.

"What's the verdict?" Dean asked before the doctor could say anything; his cavalier comment somewhat dulled by the hoarseness of his voice.

"You need to stop drinking," the doctor answered, arms folded across his chest.

Dean's mouth snapped shut on whatever he'd been about to say.

Dr. Maguire didn't give him the chance to recover. He said, "You are very lucky that you're not dead. The bleeding was minimal and your blood counts are good enough to avoid a transfusion, but your condition is serious."

As usual, Dean skipped right past that and jumped straight to- "So when can I get outta here?"

"Once the fluids are complete and we get another set of vital signs, we'll discuss instructions for what you need to do if you don't want to wind up here again tomorrow." If the doctor was annoyed with Dean's attitude, it didn't show. "We'll talk about discharge when-"

"Let's talk about it now," Dean interrupted.

Sam tried to control his breathing at the sound of his brother's argumentative tone. Sharp pains stabbed through his chest. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans as the doctor and Dean went back and forth. He knew he was missing a lot of what they were saying. A few things stood out, but otherwise, he had difficulty following the conversation. By the end of it, both the doctor and Dean looked frustrated and irritated.

He'd picked up on enough to know Dean was stable, needed a long rest and medications, and needed to lay off the booze if he wanted to get better. Given how much he was routinely drinking these days, Sam didn't know which scared him more; the thought of Dean continuing to drink or the thought of him giving up drinking.

The only thing he was sure of was the fact that he needed to get his own act together.

In the grand scheme of things, he really hadn't had a lot of opportunity to address everything that had happened since Cas had brought him back from the cage. He'd come back without a soul. He'd gotten his soul back and found out he'd lost an entire year of his life although, technically, he'd been living that entire year even if he couldn't remember it.

Trying to deal with that and trying to deal with the memories of the cage that kept poking through the wall in his head had left him so busy he'd barely had time to catch his breath before things started falling apart again and Cas destroyed the wall in his head. The hallucinations had taken over from there and it had been one rapid, scary descent into insanity ever since.

For having his head back to himself, Sam found it difficult to concentrate. The maddening voice was gone, but his thoughts jumped around the way they had all along when the devil had been interjecting his opinions over everything else.

Things had been bad enough when it had been Dean or Tommy trying to talk to him. But what happened earlier with Arla had been the last straw. Sam shook his head, staring at the floor as he thought back to their conversation. He still couldn't believe how he'd acted; what he'd told her. Couldn't believe he'd been so careless, so stupid.

The chest pains were back and he felt short of breath. His eyes watered as he remembered the way she'd squeezed his hand. The way she'd forgiven him. For that brief moment, when he'd held onto her, he'd almost felt whole again. Almost felt like he wasn't something evil and dirty. But the moment had passed and he'd pulled away because he didn't deserve what she was offering him. And she didn't deserve to continue wasting her time on him.

Lost in his thoughts, Sam heard his name being called again and forced himself back to the present. The doctor was gone and Dean was staring at him. Once Sam met his eyes, Dean shook his head and said, "You're introspecting so loud I can hear you from here."

It was so out of the blue, so _Dean._ Sam smiled and, because he knew Dean was expecting a mouthy reply, asked, "Do you even know what introspecting means?"

"Yeah. It means you're sitting there beating yourself up about something," Dean answered, shifting his position, then yanking three tissues out of the box on the bedside table and wiping his nose. Crumpling the tissues and dumping them over the edge of the bed into a basin someone had strategically placed there, Dean said, "You keep zoning out again."

It sounded like a statement, but Sam heard the question in Dean's voice. For a long time now, 'zoning out' meant the devil was occupying his mind with something horrible and pulling him out of reality. It wasn't the case anymore, but Sam knew his brother was still afraid of the possibility.

Truth be told, Sam was still afraid of the possibility himself.

"I'm just tired." Sam tried to reassure _both_ of them. And oh was he tired. He couldn't remember ever being more tired in his entire life.

Dean narrowed his eyes and was about to say something else, but was interrupted by a beeping noise. Searching the monitors, trying to figure out which one was alarming, Sam gave up trying because the monitors were too blurry for him to make out anyway. Then he realized Dean had a cell phone in his hand. Dean grinned and, for a moment, he didn't look sick or miserable. He looked happy. Sam waited for an explanation.

"It's Arla," Dean said, still grinning. "She left her phone for me in case we needed it."

"Yeah? Why're you smiling?"

Dean's grin widened and he said, "She texted from Tommy's phone."

"So?"

"So I've got her phone. Guess what her contact name for him is."

Staring back, Sam waited. His brain wasn't up to games.

Dean rolled his eyes and said, " _Pooh Bear_."

Sam laughed. And then Dean laughed and Sam felt some of the chest pains and fear let up a little.

It looked like the contact name might amuse Dean for some time to come. His grin remained wide as he asked, "Wanna know what his contact name for her is?"

Dean was positively gleeful and Sam humored him by saying, "Kanga?"

"What the hell is a _Kanga_?" Dean's expression was dumbfounded.

"The kangaroo."

It took a long moment, then the light went on in Dean's confused eyes and he scowled. "Why would he call her Kanga?"

"I don't know. Why would she call him Pooh Bear?"

"No clue," Dean said, looking back down at the phone, his smile returning.

"What's his contact name for her?" Sam asked and it wasn't just to humor his brother. He honestly wanted to know.

Dean grinned. "Hot Mama."

Sam laughed again, enjoying the childish joy in his brother's eyes. After a moment, he asked, "What did she say?"

"She wants to know if you're hungry."

"No," Sam said immediately and wished he hadn't because the amusement in Dean's eyes faded.

"You didn't eat lunch."

"Who's fault is that?" Sam couldn't stop himself from the comment.

Dean didn't seem angry about it though; he looked irritated, yet appropriately guilty. He said, "You need to eat something."

"Later."

"It is later." Dean pointed up at the clock. "It's almost time for supper."

"Not now." Sam wished he'd stop pushing. The last thing he wanted to think about was food.

"Sam," Dean said, not giving up.

"I said not now," Sam snapped, feeling close to losing control again. It was difficult to draw in a breath because it felt like someone was sitting on his chest. Pain that had nothing to do with the broken rib stabbed through him as he forced himself to add, "I can't. Not right now."

Dean studied him for a few seconds, then nodded and texted something back to Arla.

Sam wanted to run away. Just thinking about Arla made him lightheaded. He'd let his guard down in a way that scared him. Things were bad enough without him losing control and showing someone, basically a complete stranger, exactly how utterly screwed up he was and the extent of his own failures.

He wanted to leave. Not just the hospital. He wanted to leave the town and the too cheerful house that smelled like homemade bread and was filled with a love he couldn't comprehend. He wanted to leave Arla and Tommy behind him and never look back and try to forget the innocent people who didn't deserve to have their lives corrupted by the stench of his life. Sam wanted to start walking in any direction and never stop. The urge to run until he fell over because he couldn't run any more swept over him again and the pains in his chest were back.

He wanted to get away from everyone.

"Neither of us are going anywhere. Not for a few days at least."

Dean's voice broke into his spiraling thoughts. It was as if he'd been reading his mind and Sam wondered how much of what he was thinking, what he was feeling, showed on his face.

"Sam?"

He looked up at Dean and asked hoarsely, "What?"

Dean sighed heavily and looked like he was losing the strength to keep up a conversation. "You said you wanted to get away from everyone."

 _I said that aloud?_ Sam's throat was too tight and the room was too small.

"Look," Dean went on, "I get it. This isn't how I wanted things to go, either. And yeah, I screwed up. Big time." He looked up at the IV pole and fiddled with the tubing, then dropped his hands to his chest and said, "I don't want to be here anymore than you do. And I don't like involving them again. But we can't keep going. Not like this."

"We're fine," Sam whispered, the lightheadedness intensifying along with the headache. He stared at Dean and he wasn't sure if he were trying to convince himself or if he were waiting, _hoping,_ for confirmation from his brother. "We're fine."

"We're not fine." Dean shook his head, not lifting it from the pillow. "Neither of us are fine. You're trying, Sam. I know you are. But you are not fine."

Sam's eyes burned and he let his head rest back against the wall. He held Dean's gaze silently until Dean's eyes slid closed. It only took a few more seconds before he closed his eyes too; the weight of everything crushing the last shred of resistance out of him.

Dean was right.

He wasn't fine.

And he was terrified he never would be fine again.

Because he wasn't sure it was worth the effort to fight that hard anymore.

* * *

Dean wasn't sleeping but he wasn't really awake either. He could hear the forced quiet that didn't quite mask the bustle of the busy emergency room. Could hear doctors being paged, alarms going off, voices talking in hushed yet loud tones. But he wasn't listening to any of those noises.

Not really.

He was listening to Sam breathe. He knew his brother was exhausted, mentally and physically and, as far as he could tell, Sam had fallen asleep as soon as his eyes had closed. He needed the sleep, but he needed to be doing the sleeping in a bed not a hard plastic chair crammed up against the wall and a cupboard in a cold emergency room.

Of course, Dean wasn't in any position to arrange that. And the nagging voice in the back of his head kept whispering _maybe it's best if Sam stays where you can see him_. He opened one eye just to reassure himself that Sam was in fact still there.

Closing his eyes again, Dean tried to rest. He knew he was going to need to be rested in order to face up to what was coming after they left the hospital. He already knew he wasn't being admitted which meant he was going to need to face up to reality sooner than maybe he was prepared to. Staying in the hospital the other day had not been his choice, and he couldn't say he'd been happy about it but there was an aspect of being stuck in the hospital that had been good.

He'd been able to hide from his brother and from the reality of how serious his own issues were.

Even now, he was still in pain and feeling sick, but the desire that had driven him to the bar in the first place had not been satisfied. He still wanted a drink. Right now, lying in a bed in an ER with a bleeding hole in his gut, he still wanted a drink.

Dean knew he _did_ have a drinking problem. Sam had as much as told him that several times over the past few months and even Bobby had tried to point it out to him. Dean hadn't wanted to admit it or acknowledge it but the fact of the matter was that he needed to stop drinking. Because it was physically killing him and because this wasn't him. Wasn't what he wanted. Who he wanted to be.

And it wasn't who Sam needed him to be.

Dean forced his eyes open again and studied his brother as he slept. He wished Sam hadn't come to the hospital and he wished he could talk to Arla right now and find out what had happened so he could figure out how to fix it.

But he wasn't going to get those answers for awhile, he knew. Even though he didn't want to give into the fatigue, he couldn't stop his eyes from closing again. He started to drift and, for awhile, his mind shut down.

Voices and movement around him brought him back to awareness and the first thing he did was to make sure Sam hadn't gone anywhere. He hadn't moved as far as Dean could tell. Then he looked up at the clock and realized he'd been half asleep for almost half an hour. There was a nurse talking his ear off about discharging him and instructions and medications and he managed to get ahold of the phone and text Arla.

His head wasn't up to accepting that much information. He needed Arla to listen and interpret the flood of information for him into smaller pieces. The nurse was staring at him and he could tell she was realizing that he wasn't absorbing anything she was saying. Before he could ask her to wait, Arla was at the door and heading his way.

Dean felt such relief at seeing her again that he almost cried. He held one hand up at the nurse and said, "Tell her everything. Not me."

And the nurse did. In detail that Dean didn't even attempt to follow. He let Arla handle it while the nurse disconnected him from the IVs and heart monitor. Freed from the bonds, he took the hospital gown off and grabbed his shirts from the small table to the left of the bed where someone, probably Arla, had folded them neatly.

 _At least this time they didn't steal my pants,_ Dean thought with relief as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. He looked like a drug addict with all the bruises from the IVs and the repeated blood draws. By the time he'd finished getting dressed, he was worn out and dizzy and hurting again like he'd never had any of the heavy duty painkillers that they'd been giving him.

"Dean? Are you ok?" Arla's voice was close.

He realized he'd closed his eyes. Opening them, he saw her standing just to his side, one hand hovering like she wanted to provide support, but wasn't sure if she should. He tried for a smile and said, "I'm ok."

She didn't disagree with him, but she also didn't look any less worried. He took a glance around the room, realized the nurse was gone and turned back to Arla when she asked, "Are you ready to go?"

"Long past," he said, searching for his boots. Pulling one on, he followed Arla's gaze and sighed when he saw Sam still sitting there, apparently asleep.

"Has he been sleeping long?" Arla asked, her voice soft although she really didn't need to bother considering that Sam hadn't shown any signs of awareness despite the nurse's over-enthusiastic and overly detailed discussion a few minutes ago.

"Not long enough," Dean answered. For a minute, he focused on getting his other boot on, then cleared his throat and said, "Sam."

No answer.

Dean met Arla's eyes and saw the same worry there that he felt himself. They both took another peek at Sam, but he hadn't moved so Dean waved a hand to the door and said softly, "Go on ahead."

"Ok. Take your time." Arla gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze as she walked past him. "We'll be out front with the car."

He nodded, taking a deep breath and pushing himself off the bed. Once Arla had walked out the door and he'd regained a sense of balance, Dean tried again, a bit more loudly, "Sam."

It took two more tries before Sam opened his eyes. He turned his head and stared blankly at nothing for a few more seconds before finally seeming semi-alert. Dean waited as patiently as he could. Sam blinked at him a few more times, then Dean saw the lights come back on and he couldn't help but smile at the sleepy and befuddled expression on Sam's face.

"Hey." Dean waited, but got no response. It was almost as if Sam were struggling to unravel the laws of physics instead of simply coming up a response to what Dean said. Trying again, he asked, "You ready to go?"

Sam squeezed his eyes closed for a few seconds, then nodded.

"Ok. Let's get outta here." Dean waited but Sam didn't move for a good thirty seconds. When he did finally stand, he wavered unsteadily and Dean reached out for him only to have Sam flinch away. Stomach turning at the reaction, Dean said, "Sorry."

Sam nodded again and took a step forward. Dean backed off but stayed close enough that he could hopefully provide support if needed; if Sam would even accept it.

 _And if I can even stand up long enough to give him any help,_ Dean thought to himself as he wavered.

He put a hand against the wall until the world settled. Sam had already walked to the door, but paused and looked back. He still didn't say anything, and the continued silence was unnerving. But Dean felt a little better because at least Sam was making eye contact now and acting like he realized he wasn't alone in the world.

Sam waited for him, then allowed Dean to lead the way, and it was a good thing he was alert enough to pay attention where they were going or they wouldn't have made it out. Sam followed him without a word. When Dean paused to catch his breath, Sam stopped moving too.

"You doin' ok?" Dean asked, putting a hand against the wall again.

Sam's voice was strained as he said, "Let's just get out of here."

It wasn't much, but it was something at least. Dean pushed himself off the wall and started walking again. Sam tagged along behind him through the busy ER. No one paid any attention to them for which Dean was grateful. At this point he wasn't sure how Sam would handle it if anyone approached them. And he wasn't sure how _he_ would handle it if Sam couldn't handle it.

The whole thing made his head hurt.

The sliding doors opened in front of them and Dean felt a rush of relief mixed with anxiety when he saw the Pender's car. He hesitated. A quick glance at Sam showed Dean that he wasn't the only one hesitating. Sam looked like he would rather be anywhere else.

And Dean couldn't blame him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Hi! I owe y'all thank you notes to your wonderful reviews to ch 26...and I shall write you back soon, but wanted to go ahead and post this chapter. Thanks to my lovely beta L.H. the Second for her always wonderful help getting this chapter whipped into shape!**

 **As a side note, I wanted to let you all know that I am participating in NaNoWriMo and have 2 new stories that I've combined for my project this year. One is a Christmas story set in season 4 and one is a tag to Red Meat. It's quite fun getting to write three different stories from three very different seasons and explore the dynamics between the boys at those different periods in their lives! I've only got five-thousand some words left for my word count and I'm planning to have the Christmas one ready to post in December. I GUARANTEE it will NOT be a ridiculously long saga like my last Christmas story turned out to be lol! Anyway, just wanted to let you know what I have coming up next!**

 **But now, back to this story.** **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 27**_

Dean knew the car was only a few yards away, but it might as well have been a hundred miles. He was ready to collapse into bed and call it a day. To do that, though, he needed to get to the car, survive the trip, then get _out_ of the car, and drag himself upstairs at the Penders' house. All of which seemed like insurmountable ordeals. However, those insurmountable ordeals were nothing compared to what he was facing right now.

Motivating Sam to _get_ to the car looked like it was going to be even more of an issue than anything else. He should never have hesitated. Dean cursed himself for having paused forward movement. Because if he hadn't hesitated, then Sam wouldn't have hesitated. And Sam hesitating had led to Sam completely stopping.

Dean tried taking a few steps forward, but his shadow didn't follow. Turning around, he found Sam taking one unsteady step backwards, his eyes all too clearly conveying how uncertain he was, how close he was to falling apart. A lot of it, of course, was the fact that he was still half asleep, but Dean could only think of a few other times Sam had ever looked so bad.

Frustration warred with fear as Dean tried to decide how to handle the situation. A wrong move at this point was going to end in disaster. Of course, the disaster had already begun so what could he really do that would make things worse than they already were? He slowly walked back toward Sam as the sliding doors they'd _almost_ made it through closed behind him.

"Sam?" Dean asked tentatively, trying his best to keep any hint of tension or pressure out of his tone. It wasn't easy considering how shaky and sick he felt. His head still felt like it was going to explode and he wished he'd snagged a handful of tissues because his nose was running constantly.

He waited for a response, but the only response he received was Sam taking two more steps back until he was pressed up against a wall. For one terrible second, Dean thought he was going to pass out. Sam's eyes fluttered dangerously, but then snapped open and Dean hurried forward to try to crowd his brother's vision before anything else could.

His instinct was to reach out and either shake Sam to get him to focus, or grab him to keep him from falling over. Based on his brother's reaction a few minutes ago, Dean didn't dare touch him. Instead, he pressed one hand against his own stomach and tried to ignore the queasy feeling and pain that was stabbing through him. He held his breath and waited until Sam's frantic eyes settled on him.

"Dean?" Sam asked, his voice equal parts tentative and terrified. His gaze continued to skip around the area like he was searching for a threat.

"Yeah?"

"Where...where're we?"

Dean's heart dropped. His mouth went dry. They stared at each other and Dean wished he knew what was running through Sam's mind because maybe it would help him figure out what he was supposed to say or do to make this better. He swallowed hard and decided on simply going with the cold, hard truth. "We're at the hospital."

"The hospital," Sam repeated. He looked stunned. Like he wasn't processing anything.

At all.

Dean nodded, that feeling of impending doom only increasing with every second he wasn't getting a coherent response from his brother. "Yeah. Remember? We-"

"Bobby's-"

"Bobby's dead, Sam." The words tasted bitter as he spat them out. Dean watched as each one slammed into Sam as if it had been a punch he'd thrown instead of a word.

"It was real," Sam whispered, his back still to the wall, expression going vacant.

"Yes! Damn it, Sam! Yes. Ok?" Dean's voice rose with every word. "He's dead. It was real. Just like everything else that happened this year!"

Dean knew he was being too loud. Knew he was attracting attention. Knew he should never have started saying what he was saying. But it was too late to take the words back. It was too late to erase the damage that had been done to _him._ To _them._ And it was too late to erase the damage he was doing right now.

Sam's breathing was out of control and Dean saw the exact moment when something changed in his eyes. Something shifted. Switched off. Sam closed his eyes in a slow blink and when he opened them again, it was as if nothing had happened. Somehow, it was more terrifying than the panic from seconds ago.

"We should go," Sam said, voice unnaturally steady.

Dean's jaw dropped and he struggled for words, but Sam didn't give him the chance. He pushed himself off the wall and started walking toward the door. Sam had snapped out of whatever had just happened and was making sense and walking on his own two feet toward the Pender's car. Following him, Dean tried to tell himself this was a good thing.

He didn't believe his own lie.

Arla was standing beside the car when they got outside and Dean knew she must have been waiting to see where they wanted to sit. He felt sick enough that the front seat sounded like a good plan. But considering the way Sam had reacted to just about everything, he knew it wasn't an option. Dean decided he would sit in the back because he wasn't sure how Sam would do sitting next to Arla again.

He looked at Arla and shook his head. She seemed to take the hint, getting into the car without a word.

Sam opened the back door and stood there waiting. Dean frowned, then realized Sam was waiting for him to get in the car. He wanted to grumble about being fully capable of opening his own doors, but kept his mouth shut.

The trip back to the house was almost entirely silent. Tommy and Arla conversed briefly in quiet tones and Dean didn't bother trying to pay attention to what they were saying. He leaned his head against the seat back and closed his eyes. Somewhere along the way he apparently dozed off, because the next thing he knew, he was returning to awareness at the sound of Sam calling his name. Opening his eyes, he realized the car was parked inside a garage.

Dean felt a sudden pang of sorrow when he thought about the Impala sitting in a nondescript shed at one of Rufus' safe houses. He missed his car. The power under the hood, the freedom she afforded him and the way she felt like home.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was close and not where he'd expected it to be. He was leaning in the open door to Dean's right and looking worried. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded, ignoring the headache and stomachache. Whether he really was ok or not, he was gonna be. Because one of them needed to be ok and Sam wasn't exactly in the running for the title.

Sam didn't look reassured, but backed up to allow Dean room to get out of the car. Pushing himself upright, Dean had to close his eyes against the dizziness and put a hand out to grab the door. As he did, he felt a hand on his shoulder, providing support. Once the dizziness passed, he opened his eyes and nodded again.

"I'm good. Let's go." Dean closed the car door and Sam moved away, but didn't go far.

He was hovering and Dean kept his mouth shut about it; he didn't dare open it because he'd probably wind up saying the wrong thing. Again. He thought about how Sam had said he wanted to get away from everyone. Sam had been mumbling to himself at the time, but Dean had caught the quiet admission. So he kept his mouth shut because Sam hovering was better than Sam running. At this point, Dean didn't think Sam was physically capable of running very far.

But it didn't mean he wouldn't try.

Sam led the way to the open door into the house, but stayed close enough to provide support if needed. When they reached the door, Dean caught sight of Arla standing just inside the entranceway. Sam's footsteps faltered and Dean started worrying about how he was going to stop his brother if he decided now was the moment he was going to run. Dean had only walked a few feet and he was winded and nauseated. If Sam went anywhere right now, he knew there was nothing he would be able to do about it.

Thankfully, Sam didn't do anything except hurry past Arla without a glance or a single word. Dean figured it was the best way things could have gone.

He wanted to go straight to bed, but knew he couldn't do that yet. He passed Arla and said quietly, "We need to talk."

Arla nodded, but remained silent.

Dean walked further into the warm house, caught sight of the drizzling rain outside, then looked for Sam.

Tommy saw him looking around and, as he slid out of his jacket, said, "He went upstairs."

That wasn't what Dean wanted to hear, but it didn't surprise him. Without a word, he headed for the stairs. The trip up left him huffing and puffing and hurting, but he made it without incident. He paused to catch his breath and try to figure out what exactly he planned to do or say. By the time he took a step forward, he still had no idea.

He frowned as he reached the bedroom door. The radio and the overhead light were both on, but the room was empty. Backtracking, he was about to head to the bathroom even though the light wasn't on, when he heard movement coming from the bedroom he'd been using. It took him four steps to reach the doorway.

"Sam?" Dean asked, trying to figure out what was happening.

Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, one of the bags of gear sitting on his lap as he wrestled with something in his hands. Dean flipped the light on as he walked into the room. Sam seemed oblivious to the light and his presence. He was so focused on whatever he was doing that Dean crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to him before Sam even looked up.

Sam spared him one quick glance before looking down again.

Now that he was closer, Dean could see what he was wrestling with. The bottle of Tylenol. He frowned, watching as Sam finally got the top off. The bag of gear slid off his lap and he cursed, but didn't bother to reach down for it. He just sat there, holding the bottle in one hand and the lid in the other.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, when nothing happened for a few seconds. "You need some of that for the headache?"

He was really hoping Sam's answer would be yes. But Sam shook his head and turned to look at him. Dean was staggered by the level of anxiety and confusion in his brother's eyes. It scared him more than a hundred Leviathans. More than losing Bobby.

Sam stared at him, his words halting and slow. "You're supposed to take the medicine."

"Yeah. But not that kind." Dean watched Sam frown at the bottle in his hand. He went on, "Arla's got what I'm supposed to take."

"Arla." Sam repeated the name, then nodded.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, wondering if Sam were just repeating the name or if he actually remembered who Arla was. Dean watched him stare down at the bottle for another few seconds. Taking his chances, Dean said, "You should take some, though."

Sam shook his head and tried to get the lid back on the bottle. It took him a few tries, but he managed it. The bottle dropped on top of the bag of gear then rolled off and hit the floor. Dean couldn't have cared less because, at that moment, he was more concerned with the possibility of _Sam_ hitting the floor.

Shifting, he grabbed Sam's shoulder as he wavered, clearly fighting to keep his eyes open. This was getting ridiculous. Dean shook his head and considered just shoving Sam until he was laying down.

"I don't know-" Sam's voice trailed off, his eyes fixed on a spot across the room.

"Don't know what?"

Sam looked at him and his hand was shaking as he reached up and touched Dean's shirt. He dropped his hand almost immediately and whispered, "I don't know what's happening."

"What's happening is that you are so overtired that you're not thinking straight." Dean squeezed his shoulder and tried to make his smile convincing. "You need to sleep."

A moment of silence followed as Dean waited to see if any of that made sense to Sam.

"He won't let me," Sam whispered, his gaze drifting away.

Dean stared at his brother. He shook his head, giving Sam's shoulder a shake as he raised his voice and said, "He's _gone,_ Sam!"

Sam jumped a little, but he stopped looking around the room. He blinked, sucked in a gulp of air as if he'd been holding his breath for the past hour, then said, "I know."

"Are you sure?" Dean couldn't help but ask. At this point, he was back to questioning if Cas had helped anything at all.

"Yeah." Sam nodded and smiled. The smile faded instantly and he seemed to shrink further into himself as he said, "I know."

"So you're with me?" Dean prompted, tilting his head down to try to meet Sam's eyes.

"I just...can't always…" Sam's words wandered and he never did answer Dean's question. "All of it...it's...nothing's clear."

"Because you're exhausted," Dean said, watching as Sam pressed a hand to his eyes.

He tried to figure out a way to get Sam to consider taking something for the headache and getting some sleep. Up to this point, nothing had worked. And, given how Sam was acting right now, Dean wasn't sure he should press the issue of the meds.

Sam lowered his hand, keeping his gaze on the floor as he asked, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Is this-"

"It's real, Sam," Dean cut him off before he could finish the thought.

Sam shook his head, still not looking up. "Doesn't feel real. I don't know...I don't-"

"You don't what?"

"I don't know if I'm here."

Everything he wanted to say, _needed_ to say vanished from his mind when he heard Sam say that. Dean felt sick and it had nothing to do with the ulcer or the cold. He stared at his brother and knew he should reassure him somehow. _You_ are _here! This is all real!_ The words slowly began to filter back into his mind, but he never got the chance to say them.

"I need to lay down," Sam whispered and began listing toward the pillow.

Dean moved to help but, faster than he'd thought possible, Sam was curling into himself, rolling over to face the other side of the room. Dean sat there for a long time, trying to pull his thoughts into order. He didn't have any luck. He shifted a bit more and stared down at his brother.

As far as he could tell, he was already asleep. And that was about the only good thing to have come out of this situation. With any luck, maybe he was finally exhausted enough to sleep long enough for it to do him some good. Dean knew better than to get his hopes up, though. Even so, he was going to utilize the opportunity it gave him.

Pushing himself to his feet, he took one last glance at Sam, then headed for the door; leaving the light on just in case. Rubbing his stomach, Dean considered dropping onto the other bed and trying to get some sleep himself. Feeling done in enough to stand a chance of sleeping, he couldn't give in to the desire yet. He needed to talk to Arla first.

He needed to know what had happened so he could deal with the fallout when Sam woke up.

Returning downstairs, he headed toward the dining room where he could hear voices. As he reached the table, Tommy and Arla stepped out of the kitchen. Dean sat down in one of the chairs at the dining room table because his legs wouldn't hold him up any longer.

Arla slid into the chair across from him and Dean wanted to let it go, wanted to ignore the entire subject, but he knew he couldn't. So he looked at Arla and asked, "What happened earlier?"

* * *

Arla wasn't surprised at Dean's question. He was perceptive enough to pick up on the fact that something had indeed happened. She _was_ surprised that he didn't seem angry, though. Maybe he was simply too worn out to be able to have a reaction at this point. He rested an elbow on the table and rubbed his eyes while he waited for her to reply.

Tommy pulled out another chair and joined her as she said, "He was worried about you and came downstairs a little while after you'd left."

Dean nodded, lowering his hand. His voice was still polite, but there was an edge to it when he asked, "He hasn't exactly been a poster boy for sanity the past few days, but he was worse at the hospital. Did something happen?"

 _Moment of truth time,_ Arla knew. She said, "We talked a little."

"Well, gold star for you." Dean sounded a little bitter, but mostly concerned. "You have some magic doctor-y hoodoo to make him talk? He won't talk to me."

Knowing he was as upset about the fact that Sam wouldn't talk to him as he was at how Sam had been acting at the hospital, Arla tried to frame her conversation carefully as to not cause any more pain. "I think he would rather have talked to you."

Tommy slid his chair closer and she stole a quick glance at him, catching his slight nod. Knowing what he was trying to tell her, Arla bit the bullet and as quickly and concisely as possible recapped everything that had happened. Dean's eyes widened as she spoke and she wished they could somehow have saved this until he'd had time to get some sleep because the conversation wasn't doing him any good.

"He told you...about all of that? About the devil?" Dean sounded like he couldn't believe it. "About the cage?"

"He didn't say anything about a cage, but he did mention the devil," Arla said, glancing at Tommy, wondering if he were going to speak up about the notebook he'd found. He was looking at Dean, though, and something in his expression told her not to bring it up. So she turned back to Dean and said, "It all happened so quickly. He didn't want to say anything, but once he started, he just kept going and I...I tried to listen and be supportive. I didn't know exactly how to help him."

Tommy squeezed her hand and she tried not to give too much thought to how devastated Sam had been when they'd been talking. How shocked _she_ had been by the things he'd told her.

Dean stared at her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Whatever you did or said, I know you were trying your best. I don't even know how to help him."

His confidence in her was surprising, but did something to relieve the knot of fear in her heart that somehow she'd blown it. That she might have overstepped her boundaries and broken their trust in her.

Dean slouched back in the chair. "I'm sure you have questions. About what he said. About everything."

"We do." Tommy spoke before she could. He leaned forward, his voice even and calming. "But now's not the time. Whatever you boys would feel comfortable sharing with us, we're here to listen. Right now, though, you need rest. We need to focus on getting both of you better before we do anything else."

The strain was still evident in Dean's voice as he looked from her to Tommy and said, "I was gonna do what you suggested. I was gonna talk to him, but he doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to talk so we all need to back off and let him be. Let him deal with this his way."

Arla held her breath, thinking about the conversation she'd had with Tommy at the hospital. She had no idea how to approach Dean with the seriousness of the situation. Even though she had a feeling he already knew, she was afraid that he wouldn't be swayed now that he'd made that decision. Thankfully, Tommy took charge before she could even begin to think of how to handle this.

"He's not dealing with it." Tommy kept his voice down, holding Dean's gaze. "He's trying. Or he was, anyway. I know you're seeing what we're seeing. This isn't something we can ignore. "

"What do you want me to do? I tried to talk to him and he shut me down before I could even start." Dean pressed a hand down on the table, pushing himself upright a bit more. "You told me to trust him and I'm trying, but he doesn't trust me. It's like he-"

Dean broke off and Arla prompted, "Like he what?"

"Like he's not any better. Sometimes I'm not sure any of it is over." He shook his head and sounded discouraged when he added, "I don't know why I'm telling you any of this."

"I think you're telling us because you know we want to help." Arla smiled, feeling a little better when he met her eyes. "The life you lead, the things you see, the things you do, it's something that few people would believe let alone understand. I know you don't trust many people, and for good reason. But you should know that you can trust us."

He didn't look away so she went on, hoping he would accept what she was offering, "You two rely on each other in a way you can't ever rely on anyone else and we understand that. But if you need us, we're here. We may not understand everything you've gone through, but that's ok. Because that's not what's important. We're not here to judge you or change you. We're just here to help."

There was a hint of hope in his eyes now. Arla smiled again, beginning to feel some of her own panic and fear dissipate. A little less tentative now, she said, "You mentioned you weren't sure it was over. Why?"

"He said some stuff. Stuff that makes me wonder if...if he's…" Dean paused, then sighed and said, "Just now he acted like he didn't know if any of this was real."

Arla didn't say anything. Dean was struggling for words and she didn't dare break up his unfinished thought. After a few seconds, he continued.

"When he was hallucinating he had problems telling the difference between what he was seeing and what was real. And he was acting like that again now." Dean waved a hand toward the stairs. He looked troubled at the admission, quickly adding, "He's not crazy."

"No. He isn't." Arla didn't hesitate and she saw the flash of relief on his face. "But he _is_ sleep deprived and confused and may need more help than we can give him."

"What are you saying?" Dean had gone rigid and Arla had no doubts he would pack everything up and haul his brother out the door if he didn't like her reply.

"I'm saying he's very ill." She chose her words carefully, but she wasn't going to minimize the situation. "There are many factors contributing to what he's experiencing. The lack of sleep alone is responsible for a lot of it. You told me, prior to this week, he'd gone months without quality sleep, leading up to a point where he couldn't sleep at all. A chronic lack of sleep causes extreme physical and mental stress."

Dean nodded, "So why isn't he crashing now? I mean, he did crash the first night, but since then...did I screw it up by waking him up? Should I just have let him sleep as long as he could? We had to get out of the motel so I-"

"You didn't do anything wrong, Dean," Arla interrupted, sensing how troubled he was. How much he was wondering if _he_ were responsible. "His reasons for not sleeping now don't have anything to do with whether you woke him up or not. He's not sleeping because the level of anxiety he's experiencing won't allow him to rest."

"So you think he's just so tired he's not thinking straight?"

"That's part of it, yes." Arla nodded, wishing it were the only issue. Steeling herself, she continued, "It's more than simply being exhausted. The sleeplessness and anxiety are symptoms or side effects of the larger issue. The trauma he endured."

Dean didn't respond, so she continued, "It isn't uncommon with severe anxiety to experience what's called derealization. It's very similar to what you said he experienced with the hallucinations. And I think that's what you witnessed just now. He's not hallucinating but, given the exhaustion and anxiety, it's not surprising that he's struggling to be sure what's going on around him."

"I guess that's better than thinking he's seeing things again." Dean didn't exactly look comforted by the thought. "So you're saying that, even if he does get some sleep, it isn't going to solve the problem?"

"Not completely," Arla said, knowing it wasn't what he'd hoped to hear. She tried to find a way to put the complex situation into words. "The problem will still be there whether he sleeps or not. It's like a patient who has been badly burned. You have to clean away all the dead, burned skin. It's an incredibly painful process, but it's necessary in order to be able to treat the wound and allow it to heal. Right now, he can't even begin to heal because he won't let anyone get close enough to help. Maybe talking isn't going to help, or maybe it will and he's just too scared to open up."

"What do you suggest because I'm drawing a blank." There was no mistaking the resignation in his tone.

Tommy spoke up before she could, "For one thing, take care of yourself. You're so burned out that you can barely function and that's not doing him any good."

"Gave up drinkin' didn't I?" There was a hint of a smile in Dean's eyes.

"It's a start. Seven hours sober." Tommy grinned, holding up his watch. His grin faded quickly as he said, "Dean, this is going to take time. What he went through, what you _both_ have gone through, can't be healed in a day and there's nothing easy about the process."

Arla added, "The important thing is to be here for him. If he doesn't want to talk right now, don't push him to talk. Don't push him to be fine. Just let him know you're here. That's what he needs more than anything else. Support."

Dean nodded, resting his head in his hands.

Exchanging a glance with Tommy, Arla decided it was time to move forward. Dean needed to be in bed getting whatever rest he could. She doubted any of them were going to be getting much sleep, but maybe they'd be able to catch an hour or two. She slipped away from the table and headed for the kitchen. Dean hadn't moved by the time she'd returned with a slice of bread spread with peanut butter and a glass of water.

Setting them down on the table, she rested a hand on his shoulder and said softly, "Dean. Try to eat a little, please?"

He straightened, not stiffening under her touch. Staring down at the slice of bread, he nodded and started eating. His movements were slow and it was obvious eating was painful, but he was making an effort which was more than she had honestly expected. She returned to the kitchen to sort through his medications, gathering the correct ones into her hand. Placing them on the table next to the glass of water, Arla was about to sit down when Dean spoke.

"Do you have bananas?"

"I do. Peanut butter and banana?"

Dean nodded, reaching for the pills and the water. "I don't know if he's gonna be willing to eat but-"

"I'll make him a sandwich." She paused when Dean frowned at her. "What's wrong?"

"Just...you don't think...that sandwich is disgusting!" he seemed shocked that she'd be willing to make it.

"I agree." She smiled. "It is disgusting. But I'm a mother, dear. I have been served some of the most disgusting concoctions known to man. Nothing scares me."

 _Well, nothing except monsters and the level of darkness this boy has seen,_ Arla thought to herself as she went to slice a banana.

* * *

Sam woke up feeling like he was suffocating. He sucked in an unsteady breath and found himself in a room he didn't recognize. The room was brightly lit from the overhead light and it took thirty panic stricken seconds for him to remember where he was. He was on top of the covers in the bedroom Dean had been using, heart pounding as he stared at the wall.

It was almost as if he had been drugged or paralyzed because he couldn't move. At all. His breathing quickened and the inability to move was so terrifying that he honestly thought he was going to die right there in the spare bedroom of the Penders' vacation house.

Sam sucked in yet another desperate breath then clamped his mouth shut on the scream that threatened to break free. Why he felt so panic-stricken, he wasn't sure. If he'd been dreaming, he couldn't remember it. Focusing on the edge of the window frame, Sam forced himself to think. The last clear thing he remembered was the trip to the hospital. The rest of it was hazy even though pieces of it were beginning to come into focus.

Dean had walked in and they'd been sitting on the bed talking. He'd all but passed out under the weight of everything that had happened. Sleep had come instantly and had been a pit of utter blackness. It had been the best sleep he'd had in days.

Breathing slowly returning to normal, Sam flexed his fingers and then rolled onto his back when he realized he could move. Staring up at ceilings was never one of his favorite things to do and the bright light was spearing through his eyes to the back of his skull so he squeezed them closed, feeling dizzy even though he was lying still.

The longer he lay there, though, the more the memories began to slam into him and, dizzy or not, he pushed himself upright and gripped the edge of the bed, trying to keep his breathing under control. The room was too quiet and the walls seemed to be shrinking ever closer to him until it reached the point he couldn't sit there any longer. He couldn't breathe and he pressed a hand to his chest, trying to alleviate the sharp pains.

He needed to get out.

Pushing himself to his feet, he almost fell on his face. Stumbling to the wall, he kept a hand on it as he rushed toward the door. The hallway loomed in front of him and a new bolt of panic shook him. He had to get downstairs. Past everyone. And they were going to stop him. He might be sleep-deprived and losing his mind, but he had enough sense to know that no one was going to let him do what he needed to do.

Get out.

Well, he'd fight that battle when he got to it. Right now he needed to get to the stairs. Halfway through the hall, he heard slow footsteps coming up the stairs and he veered to the right into the other bedroom, feeling cornered. The radio was still on and so was the light but none of that helped now. He looked at the window, stupidly wondering if he could get it open and climb out.

"Sam?"

His legs went out from under him and he sank gratefully onto the edge of the bed.

Dean crossed the room, but kept a distance between them. Sam forced himself to look up at his brother. He saw the glass of water and plate in Dean's hands and felt like throwing up. Squeezing his eyes closed, he tried to focus on the song on the radio. After a second or two, he realized Dean hadn't said anything else. Opening his eyes, he met Dean's gaze again and could clearly see how uncertain his brother was right now.

Wishing he were able to keep a better grip on himself so Dean could stop wasting his time worrying about him, Sam asked, "You alright?"

"Yeah."

"Take your pills?"

"Had something to eat too." Dean held up the plate. "Arla made this for you."

"Not hungry." The words came out before he could stop them.

"I know." Dean sighed. He walked closer and sat down on the edge of the bed and Sam fought not to move away. "But you need to eat something. Just...whatever you can do, ok? I don't care if it's only one bite. I don't. I just need you to try."

The plate was pushed into his hands and Sam stared down at the sandwich. He asked, "How long did I sleep?"

"About half an hour."

Sam looked up in surprise. "It felt longer."

Dean didn't comment, just stared at the other side of the room.

The plate felt heavy in his hands and Sam looked back down at the sandwich. It was only half a sandwich and it looked like peanut butter and banana. Dean had clearly pulled out all the stops in his attempt to find something that he might be willing to eat. Sam picked it up and took a bite. It didn't taste good. It didn't taste at all. But he concentrated until he'd eaten half of it. The glass of water was pushed into his hand and the plate removed. He drained half the glass, realizing it had been hours since he'd had anything to drink.

Silence fell for the space of a triple play of _Styx_ , then Dean said, "You need to tell me what's going on and let me help you."

"You know what's going on and you can't help me," Sam replied without hesitation. He'd really hoped he'd made it clear earlier that he was done with this line of conversation. "I can't talk about it. I've said too much already."

"You haven't said anything, Sam. Not really," Dean said, turning to face him. "That's the problem."

Sam looked away.

After another long period of silence, Dean shifted and pushed himself to his feet. He said, "I'm gonna get some sleep. You should too."

Dean waited for a few seconds, then started walking. Sam heard him put the plate down on the desk as he walked past it. His footsteps hesitated again when he reached the door, and Sam wanted to thank him for the sandwich. Wanted to talk to him. About anything that wasn't the devil and hell. But he couldn't find the words to start the conversation and the moment passed and Dean was gone.

Sam was left in the room with the light and radio on and the door open.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, losing himself in the music on the radio. Familiar songs he'd grown up listening to. When he almost dropped the glass of water, Sam decided he probably should lie down again. Setting the glass on the bedside table, he lay down, watching the clock. It was half past eight and he knew the chances of him getting any sleep were slim, but he was too tired to do anything but lay there, and too keyed up to relax.

Watching the hours tick past, listening to the music and the inane chatter of the late night DJ, Sam lost himself in the monotony of it all. It worked for awhile and then something, he wasn't even sure what, triggered a memory and all he could hear was the devil's voice telling him things. Things that he'd tried to ignore at first. But the longer he'd listened to the voice in his head, the more the things the voice told him had started to make sense.

He rolled over to face the other side of the room, wishing that covering his ears with his hands would shut the voice up. It had never helped when he'd _actually_ been hallucinating the devil, and it wasn't helping now when he was just remembering. Heart pounding, Sam pushed himself upright, wondering if he stood a chance of getting out of the house now.

Maybe Dean was exhausted and sleeping soundly enough that he wouldn't hear him leave.

About to make his move, the orange pill bottles Dean had left on the dresser the day before caught Sam's eye. They stood like glaring reminders of the way he'd been drugged half out of his mind back at the psychiatric hospital. Far worse, they reminded him of the things the devil had said to him. The things he'd told him to do.

Even now, as he stared at the bottles, he could almost hear the voice whispering in his ear, " _There might be enough. You'll never know until you try. Go ahead. You've got some water to wash 'em down with. You need to sleep. Dean told you to. He knows this is the best thing you could do for either of you. Take the pills, Sammy, and it'll all go away-"_

Sam was on his feet and halfway across the room before the imagined voice could finish. He wanted to get outside, but the way he felt at the moment, he opted for the bathroom. He'd been humiliated enough. Potentially throwing up on Arla's carpet as he rushed to the door was more than he could handle.

Pulling the bathroom door closed, he didn't turn the light on, simply sank down on the floor, back to the tub when his legs refused to hold him up. The feeling of nausea eventually passed and he was thankful he didn't wind up revisiting his sandwich. The darkened room began to close in on him, but he didn't feel up to moving.

And then the door opened and he knew he wouldn't be going anywhere even if he could somehow get to his feet.

* * *

 **Shout out to ArtistKurai for the burn analogy! Thank you!**

 **Ch 28 coming along quite nicely and hopefully won't be too long in arriving in your in-box! Thank you for reading! :)**


	28. Chapter 28

**Hope you all had a great Thanksgiving! I had a nice time relaxing with family. Got quite a bit written to this story and to the story I'll be posting in December! And...for the first time in the 5 years I've done NaNoWriMo...I finished early! I actually got my 50,000 words last Sunday which is unreal! I've never been done so early, nor have I ever written so much in a month! I didn't count any of the words I wrote to this story for my NaNo word count. So yeah...this night owl is discovering that waking up early is REALLY good for writing! :)**

 **Happy reading! :)**

* * *

 ** _Chapter 28_**

Sam was up.

Hearing hurried movement in the hall, Dean rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep as he stared at the clock next to the bed. Almost midnight. He really should have expected it given the way the day had gone. Pushing himself upright, he sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

Listening.

He hadn't heard footsteps going down the stairs which mean Sam had probably just crossed the hall to the bathroom. Everything was quiet. Which might mean he was managing to keep his guts where they belonged. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Sam should've been back in bed by now if he wasn't planning to take a midnight stroll like last night.

Wanting to prevent that, Dean dragged himself to his feet. It took him a minute to feel steady enough to move. Once the lightheadedness died down a bit, he headed for the door. Crossing the hall to the bathroom, he noticed that the downstairs lights were off. They all kept waiting for a good night's sleep. _Maybe tomorrow_ , he thought, hoping his movement wouldn't wake the Penders up. At the closed bathroom door, he didn't bother knocking, just opened the door.

Light from the bedroom behind him illuminated the bleary eyes that met his from across the dark room. Sam was sitting on the floor; sweaty and breathing fast like he'd actually taken that run he'd been trying to take earlier.

 _At least he's not wrapped around the toilet,_ Dean thought with a measure of relief. He put a washcloth under the tap and flipped on the cold water. Once it was soaked, he squeezed it out, and tossed it to Sam.

Sam pressed it to his face, elbows braced on his raised knees as he leaned against the wall. His voice was muddled and raw when he said, "Thanks."

Dean took a slow, steadying breath and leaned against the sink. Being upright was helping a little with the congestion, but now his nose was running again. Yanking half a dozen tissues out of the box on the counter, he blew his nose. It didn't help much and only helped jack the headache up another notch. Rubbing his stomach, and feeling unsteady, he decided maybe he should simply have stayed in bed.

Since he was here, though, he asked, "You get sick?"

A shake of Sam's head was his only answer.

"So why're you up?"

Sam shrugged. Dean knew he really didn't need to explain. He'd either had a nightmare, if he'd managed to fall asleep at all, or he'd simply been too miserable to sleep. Ever since leaving the psychiatric hospital, Dean had waited to see improvement, hoped to see the light at the end of the tunnel. But they weren't there yet and he didn't know why Sam was refusing to make it a little easier on all of them and just take something for the headache so he could sleep.

It was too late for this nonsense. Dean had managed some sleep, but not enough. It was just enough to leave him feeling hungover and grumpy. His head was pounding and his stomach still felt burned and he really wished his brother would get himself sorted out from whatever he was going through. Sam didn't want to talk. He apparently didn't plan to ever sleep again. And Dean was at a complete loss.

Too tired to deal with any of it right now, his frustration bubbled over, and Dean ground out, "Why won't you just take the flippin' pills so we can both get some sleep?"

"I can't." Sam lowered his hands, but didn't look at him. His voice was less than a whisper when he added, "I might take them."

"That's kinda the point, genius. You take them and-" Dean broke off as it occurred to him in a horrible flash of understanding exactly what Sam meant by that statement.

His heart nearly stopped as he stared at his brother. Sam stared back, defeated. After a silent minute, Sam closed his eyes and rested his face against the washcloth in his hands. He whispered, "Go back to bed, Dean."

A thousand terrible and not helpful things ran through Dean's mind as he stood there, wavering in the doorway. He had no idea what to say, what to think, or what to do, so he went back to bed. But he didn't close his door and he didn't sleep. Instead he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and listening. At first he wasn't sure what he was listening for. And then he realized he was listening for the sound of pills rattling in a little orange bottle.

Suddenly, he was as afraid of those little orange bottles as Sam seemed to be.

* * *

Dean looked at the clock. And groaned. One in the morning. He hadn't been sleeping; merely lying awake contemplating those pills and whether or not he should have taken them out of Sam's room. Sam had gone back to his room not long after he himself had returned to bed and Dean had been slowly driving himself crazy with worry ever since.

 _He wouldn't._

Dean shook his head, trying, but finding it difficult to convince himself. _Things've been bad before._ And they certainly had been. But right now, lying awake in the dark in a house that wasn't Bobby's, Dean knew things had never been bad like _this_ before.

 _He wouldn't._

No matter how many times he'd told himself that in the past hour, he still wasn't sure.

 _He wouldn't._

 _Would he?_

And that uncertainty was why, when he heard movement again, he was out of bed faster than he'd moved in days. Leaving his door open earlier had been the right decision. Pulling on his shoes, he was at the other bedroom door before Sam had managed to leave the room. Sam stood there, hand on the doorknob, the expression on his face somewhere between guilt and terror.

"Sam?"

"What?" He didn't sound right; not that he had in weeks.

Dean blocked the doorway and said, "You can't keep doing this."

"I...I need to...just let me take a walk."

"Sure. Tomorrow. Well, today. Later today. Not now. You do remember most people sleep at night?"

"Dean." Sam reached out and Dean almost backed away from him. But all Sam did was clasp his arm with every bit of strength he seemed to possess. His whisper was desperate when he said, "I can still hear his voice."

Dean swallowed hard, not pulling away from Sam's grip. He wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with what was coming, but he didn't have a choice. Both Arla and Tommy had told him, and he'd _known_ , that if they were ever going to hope to get past this, he needed to be there for Sam. Not pushing him to talk. Not pushing him to be fine.

He just needed to drop the anger and his own issues and _be_ there when Sam needed him. Sooner than he'd expected, it looked like the time had finally come. Dean started to speak, but didn't get the chance.

"I know it's a memory but it's still there. I can _hear_ his voice. I remember what he said to me, everything I hallucinated," Sam said, voice still a whisper, but so loud in the silence of the house. "Dean, I remember the hallucinations more clearly than I remember anything that happened this year!"

"Sam-" Dean tried to break in, afraid at how out of control Sam sounded. Afraid of what he was saying.

It was like he'd never spoken. Sam remained frozen in place as he continued, "I remember hell. I remember it! But I don't remember _us_. I don't remember the stuff we did, the hunts, the people we saved. I don't remember what happened to Bobby!" His voice broke and Dean was grabbing onto _him_ when he deflated against the door, barely standing. There were tears in his eyes as he went on, "I keep forgetting it was real. It felt like a hallucination and I can't even remember if I said goodbye to him."

Dean shook his head. _Not this! Not now._

He couldn't deal with Bobby right now. He pushed past that topic immediately and, loud enough that Sam flinched, said, "Stop it. You gotta stop thinking about all of that. You know it's over, right?"

Sam looked faint as he swallowed and nodded. He closed his eyes and said, "It's too loud. It's still too loud. I can't stand the silence because all I hear is _him_."

"I thought the radio helped."

"It did...it was...but it...but I…" Sam leaned his head against the door. "I want it to be quiet again. I need it to be quiet. My head hurts _so much_."

Dean's mouth was dry as he considered what Sam was saying. He had no idea how to make things quiet for his brother, but the headache _was_ something he could attempt to fix. "You gotta take something for the headache-"

He never got to finish the statement because Sam suddenly pushed past him. He was halfway down the stairs before Dean had even registered his movement. Not bothering to muffle a curse, he turned and headed down the stairs, barely catching sight of his brother as he crossed the dining room to the nearest exit.

Sam was out the back door by the time Dean had made it to the dining room. Movement and light to his right had him turning. Arla was coming toward him, but he shook his head and said, "I'll handle this."

She nodded and then was forgotten as he rushed out the back door, heart pounding in his ears as he wondered how exactly he was going to handle anything. He wasn't up to running any marathons but, thankfully, neither was Sam. Dean didn't slow his pace even when he saw his brother standing at the edge of the beach, hands resting on his knees as he bowed forward, trying to catch his breath.

As Dean got closer, Sam straightened and turned around. The moonlight cast his face in shadows that only made him look sicker, more haggard than he already had. Sam shook his head as they made eye contact and started stumbling away further.

"Sam! Stop!" Dean's shout split the peace of the night. It got Sam's attention, but he didn't stop moving, although he did slow down. Deciding it might be better not to actually chase him, Dean stopped moving and said, "Please. Sammy, you gotta stop."

At that, Sam froze.

Dean slowly crossed the distance between them, trying to catch his breath. Sam was swaying where he stood. As Dean finally reached him, Sam held up a hand as if to hold him back.

Sam said, "I'm-"

"Don't say it," Dean cut him off, taking another step closer. "Do not say you're fine. Do not say you're ok."

"I'm," Sam's voice dropped to a whisper as he reached out and grabbed hold of Dean's shirt, "not ok."

Dean was only half prepared for it when Sam's knees buckled and he started to go down. Heart in his throat, Dean managed to ease their descent so neither of them wound up on their face in the sand. They ended up on their knees, Sam still gripping his shirt, and Dean holding Sam to keep him upright.

"Sam?" Dean didn't recognize his own voice. It sounded all wrong and he knew the nasal congestion was only part of it. All of the discomfort he was feeling was easily ignored in light of his current level of panic. He was one breath from actually hollering for Arla when he heard his brother's equally wrecked voice.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't...don't say that. You don't need to be sorry, ok?" Dean shook his head, grateful that Sam was at least making eye contact and seeming halfway alert. Sam made a weak effort to move away, but Dean held him in place easily. He tried to keep his voice calm although he didn't feel calm at all. "Don't go anywhere."

Sam's unfocused stare was mostly on him when he said again, "I'm sorry."

"Fine. You're sorry. What are you so sorry about? Huh? Being sick? Half passing out on the ground at one in the morning?" Dean shook his head, tightening his grip on Sam's shoulders and ignoring the chill of the night air and the sand beneath his knees. "You don't have to be sorry for not being ok, Sam."

It didn't look like the statement was making Sam feel any better. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as he whispered, "I tried. I just couldn't."

"Couldn't what?"

"You never fell apart."

Dean frowned, trying to sort through what Sam meant. His statements were jumbled and it wasn't clear if his thoughts were connected. And then suddenly, _blindingly,_ they were connected and Dean was in some weird way proud of himself for solving the puzzle considering how horrible he was feeling.

"I did fall apart," Dean said once Sam had opened his eyes and looked up at him again. The admission didn't hurt nearly as much as he thought it would. As much as it would have hurt a few years ago. It still hurt, but he could say it. Which was something he hadn't been able to do before now. "I fell apart all the time. Every day. Every night. I just didn't let you know."

A tear rolled down Sam's cheek as he absorbed the statement.

Dean couldn't say any more. He couldn't admit that he still had nightmares; even though he guessed that Sam probably already knew. He couldn't admit that, sometimes, when he lit up a corpse and the flames rose up in front of him, he still pictured hell and Alistair and everything else that had been done to him; everything _he_ had done.

"I should-"

"Should what?" Dean cut him off again, realizing where Sam was going with this. "Should be over it?"

Sam nodded, looking away. "It was a long time ago."

"It wasn't that long ago. And, speaking from personal experience, it's _never_ gonna be a long time ago. It fades, yeah, but," he took a slow breath then whispered, "it's always there."

"But you're ok." Sam still wouldn't look at him. "You never...fell apart...like this."

Dean snorted and wondered if Sam had completely tuned out two recent hospital visits and everything else because he definitely wasn't ok. Knowing that wasn't what Sam meant, Dean said, "I didn't have the devil screwing with my head. I didn't deal with months of hallucinations."

This time, he got a quick flash of eye contact, before Sam went back to avoiding him.

Dean stared at him and wondered what on earth he was doing out here in the sand in the middle of the night. He wasn't helping anything. Maybe he _should_ holler for Arla. She and Tommy were much better at this kind of crap than he was.

The silence between them grew, only disturbed by the sound of the waves beyond them. It was peaceful and quiet. Listening to the water, Dean thought about what Sam had said earlier and guessed maybe this was why he kept going outside. Inside it was artificial light and never ending noise from the radio or television. He couldn't pretend he understood why Sam couldn't turn the radio off, yet craved silence.

He didn't understand because he'd never heard another voice in his head for weeks on end.

Trying to imagine what that had been like, he could all too easily remember the utter torment in Sam's eyes when he'd said he needed it to be quiet. Dull headache still throbbing behind his eyes, Dean longed for a beer in his hand right now. They'd always dealt with crap like this with a bottle or three between them. Words had been optional.

But he couldn't rely on alcohol right now. Tommy's speech had stung deep and a return trip to the ER had shaken him more than he would ever admit to anyone. He returned his attention to the present and tried to figure out a way to convince his brother to go back inside.

"Listen, I know things aren't making a lot of sense right now." Dean hoped he was getting through. "You are so exhausted you're making yourself sick."

Sam stared at him for a few seconds, then sighed. "I want to sleep. I...just...I can't."

Dean decided things couldn't really get any worse, so he asked, "Can I make a suggestion?"

"You want me to take the pills," Sam said, his voice dragging with dread.

"What I want is for you to get better. If it takes a couple meds to get you past this and sleeping again, I don't think that's a bad thing." He could see the fear clearly and still wasn't sure where all of it was coming from, and even less sure how to find out. Because Sam didn't want to talk about any of it. "Look, they've got me on a pile of meds for everything I did to myself. None of this was your fault but sometimes you gotta just take the meds in order to get better."

"I can't."

Dean's mind flashed back to what Sam had said in the bathroom earlier and he didn't want to be having this conversation right now. He didn't want to be having it half sitting in the sand in the middle of the night. But it was now or never. Things were not going to get better if they couldn't get around this roadblock. So he pressed ahead, hating himself for what he was about to say, yet too afraid now not to address.

"Sam, I need you to be honest with me." Dean received a fleeting glimpse of eye contact before Sam closed his eyes.

Taking a shaky breath, Dean prepared himself to ask the question he'd been avoiding ever since their conversation back at the cabin. Sam had commented at the time that he didn't care if there was a happy ending; he just liked the thought that there _was_ an end. The comment might have been meant innocently enough, but it had bothered Dean at the time. After everything that had happened since, it didn't bother him anymore.

It terrified him.

So he fought past the lump in his throat and asked, "Are you thinking about hurting yourself?"

It took a few seconds, then Sam looked at him again and comprehension slowly dawned in his tired eyes. His expression changed and he shook his head, saying with a conviction that Dean hadn't expected, yet didn't doubt at all, "I would never do that to you."

"But it doesn't mean you don't _think_ about it," Dean said, heart sinking. "That you haven't been thinking about it."

Sam didn't need to nod to acknowledge that he was right. The shattered expression was enough.

"He wanted me to take a bunch of pills." Sam's words tumbled out like he couldn't stop himself. "Wanted me to hoard them up until I had enough to do the job right. Before, he'd tell me to use my gun or...other stuff-"

He broke off and Dean didn't ever want to find out what Sam meant by that.

Sam continued quietly, "But in the hospital? It was the meds. In between everything else he said, everything he _did,_ that was the one thing he stressed more than anything else. Said it would be best for everyone."

"Which is why you won't go near the pills." It wasn't a question; it was a realization.

"I don't know what...I don't want to-" Sam broke off, struggling for the right words. "I can't trust myself. He's not in my head anymore but I can remember what he said. What he told me for days on end and-"

His voice trailed off so Dean prompted, "And?"

"And sometimes I'm not sure he wasn't right," Sam whispered, sinking further down as if the admission had stolen the last bit of strength he possessed.

His eyes slid closed and Dean grabbed him, pulling him forward until Sam's head was on his shoulder. Sam slumped bonelessly against his chest and Dean held on tighter, one hand remaining around his shoulders while the other came up to press against the back of Sam's head. Memories of that night in Cold Oak assaulted him as he held his brother. The position was too similar, the way Sam lay practically lifeless against him brought back memories he would never fully be able to bury.

Staring at the lake, Dean focused on the sound of Sam's uneven breathing, and rubbed his hand down his brother's back to remind himself that Sam wasn't bleeding. At least not on the outside. He felt Sam start to move, start to pull away, and Dean tightened his grip around his shoulders, keeping his hand on Sam's head gentle. It took a moment before he felt Sam's arms wrap around his back, tightening even more than his own grasp. It brought tears to his eyes because this hadn't happened at Cold Oak.

Licking his lips, Dean swallowed back the emotion, keeping his eyes on the lake as he said, "He was wrong. About everything. You hear me, Sammy?"

Sam nodded against his shoulder and Dean closed his eyes, rubbing the back of Sam's head as he felt him trembling. Maybe _he_ was trembling too, Dean couldn't be sure. All he knew was this had been too close. What _could_ have happened flashed through his mind and he was sick with the knowledge that he'd almost missed it. Almost ignored it until it was too late.

He thought of his own desperation. Thought of the night they'd found Bobby's house in flames and he'd contemplated ending not only his life, but Sam's too. And Bobby had called him out on it. Made him face up to the fact that he'd all but given up. On everything. Bobby'd shaken some sense into him that day in the van only hours before he'd been shot.

But now Bobby _was_ dead and Dean was facing up to the fact that he might have lost his brother too in the very near future.

Opening his eyes again, he knew this wasn't over. They both had a lot of stuff to work through. And he wasn't kidding himself into thinking this little session had cured all of Sam's problems. But they needed to get back inside. Sam was shaking either from shock or the cold and he didn't know how much longer he could hold either of them up. Getting back to the house without landing either of them on the ground might not actually be possible.

"You need to sleep. That's all there is to it. You need to actually sleep through the night. And you're gonna take something in order to do it." Dean felt Sam stiffen again and held him closer as he continued, "You don't ever have to touch another pill if you don't want to, but tonight? Tonight you're gonna let me help you and you're gonna take something for the headache and for the anxiety, ok?"

Sam nodded against his shoulder.

"You trust me right?"

"Yeah," Sam's voice was hoarse as he said, "But then take them with you. I...I'm not sure...if they're still there-"

"I'm not taking them. I'm going to leave them right where they are because I trust you." Dean pulled back enough to catch Sam's eyes as he said, "You need to be honest with me, though. I trust you to tell me if you go from _I've thought about it_ to _I'm thinking about it._ Alright?"

"Alright."

Dean smiled, not getting one in return. Sam's eyes were drifting closed again and he was slumping further down toward the sand. Arms shaking with the strain, Dean held him tighter and said, "Sam, come on, come on. We gotta get up."

He felt Sam nod against his shoulder again but nothing else changed. Dean had felt desperate when he'd first come outside and he felt desperate now. But for different reasons. For one thing, he was going to drop his brother in the sand if he didn't get some assistance soon. Sam's skin already felt like ice and neither of them needed to be out here at all, let alone this long. His only consolation was that the rain from earlier wasn't still falling. Didn't mean the sand wasn't still damp under his knees.

Dean contemplated, once again, shouting for the Penders because he had not doubt in his mind that they had probably been watching the entire scene. Hopefully Sam would never realize it. Dean was grateful that Arla had held back when he'd asked her to because he wasn't sure how this would have gone with anyone else around.

Deciding, again, not to call for help, he shifted position slightly and squeezed the back of Sam's neck. "Hey. You're not falling asleep on me are you?"

Sam shook his head, but the movement was barely noticeable. Dean began to realize it was actually possible to take two steps back when you weren't even on your feet. Gritting his teeth, he knew if he even attempted to get his feet under him without some cooperation, they'd both wind up on the ground. His balance wasn't what it needed to be and he was feeling more lightheaded then he wanted to admit.

He needed Sam to move. _Now._ But that didn't seem a likely possibility at the moment and Dean honestly wondered if his brother hadn't actually fallen asleep.

And then he felt Sam shifting, his arms relaxing their hold around his back. Dean loosened his grip, not by much, but enough that Sam could sit up a little more. His eyes opened for a second, then closed and his head dropped to lean against Dean's shoulder again.

Dean sighed. This was going well. As much as he wanted to be off the beach, as much as he wanted to get inside and get both of them warm, and as much as his legs were falling asleep where he sat, he couldn't move. Sam was trying, he knew he was, but Dean also knew his brother had hit his limit.

He didn't have anything left.

* * *

They'd agreed they should go to bed and get whatever sleep they could while they had the chance. They'd also agreed that staying dressed and ready for anything made sense. Waking up to the sound of movement and voices upstairs just after one AM, Tommy knew they'd made the right choice.

By the time they'd heard the back door opening, he'd been pulling his shoes on and Arla had already left the room. He'd joined her at the kitchen window and caught sight of Dean making his way across the yard.

"He said he'd handle it," Arla said softly.

Tommy frowned, then realized Dean wasn't out taking a stroll for no reason. He saw Sam standing down by the beach. As Dean approached, Sam started backing away. They heard Dean's shout, and Sam slowed down, but didn't quite stop moving. A moment later, though, he froze where he was, giving his brother time to get close.

"Neither one of them belongs outside right now," Arla said softly, and he knew she wanted him to go out there.

"No, they don't. But they need each other and we're not going to do anything to jeopardize that right now." He put his arm around her and tried to resist his own urge to do the exact opposite of what he'd just said when he saw them go down to their knees in the sand.

Arla stiffened and whispered, "Tommy."

"Honey, give them a minute." He was ready to go outside if they showed any signs of being in real trouble. Right now, it looked like they weren't moving, and he hoped it meant they were talking. Looking down at Arla, he said, "They need some space."

Meeting his gaze, she shook her head. "If they needed space, they wouldn't be here. What they need is _help."_

"Yes. And they know it. If they need us, they'll let us know."

They fell silent for a few minutes and watched as nothing much happened. At least not that they could see. He didn't like that they were out there in the chilly night air any more than Arla did, but he also knew this wasn't something they should get in the middle of right now.

"Tommy, I think you should go out there," Arla said a moment later.

"Not yet. I'm not going to interrupt unless it looks like they're in trouble."

"What does trouble look like to you, because from where I'm standing-" she broke off and they watched as Sam slumped further down and Dean grabbed him. Arla pulled away and said, "That looks like they need help!"

He caught her arm and said, "Wait."

"Tommy!"

"I will go if they need help. And you might be coming with me," he said, studying the situation outside. "But I don't think we're needed right now. A little cold air isn't good for them, but I'm pretty sure whatever else is happening out there _is_ good for them."

Arla relented and turned her attention fully to the scene before them. After a few seconds, she nodded. "Maybe you're right."

He smiled as she tucked herself back under his arm.

"But if either of them hits the sand, you are going out there."

"I will."  
She sighed heavily and wrapped her arms around him. "I don't know how they do it."

"Do what?"

"Deal with the things they do. The monsters they killed that Christmas were bad enough. And it's not that I didn't expect they ran into even more horrible things. But the things they're talking about now? How do you deal with something that evil? Something most people would laugh in your face about if you tried to explain it?"

He felt her shudder and held her closer as he said, "Together. That's how they do it."

Motioning to the scene outside, he continued, "They've stuck together their whole lives, Arla. If there's one thing I've figured out about them, it's that they're two halves of one whole. By necessity, maybe, but also because they _want_ it to be that way. They deal with the things they go through _together._ And that's what they're doing now."

"You're right." Arla nodded. "You are. But they stay out there longer than fifteen more minutes and they can work through things together while we help them get back inside and warmed up."

"Deal."

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed! Ch 29 (hopefully) won't be too far off...it's mostly complete, just needs some polishing! :)**


	29. Chapter 29

**Alright guys! Long overdue ch 29! I wanted to post it Sunday...but had a very rough weekend and kind of quit life for the day. And I'm glad I didn't post then anyway because the more I worked on the chapter, the better it got! I hope you'll agree! :) It is also quite a lengthy chapter, so hopefully that makes up for the long wait!**

 **I'm working on getting the (already FINISHED!) Christmas story polished up so I can post that for the holidays as well.**

 **Also. Today's my birthday so it was kind of exciting to get to post today lol! Happy reading!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 29**_

"Sam."

 _Sam._

"Need ya to wake up a little."

 _Good morning, Vietnam!_

"Hey, take it easy."

 _Yeah, Sam, take it easy. This won't hurt a bit._

"Sam?"

 _Sam?_

The voices mixed and mingled until they were one confusing hum in the background. Sam stopped trying to sort them out. He knew which one was real. He did. For the first time in a very, very long time, there was no doubt in his mind. It didn't make it any easier to listen to the remembered voice of the devil mocking his brother, though. It _was_ all memory now, but it was still there. Maybe it always would be.

At the moment, Sam wasn't sure of anything except that he hurt. Everywhere. His entire body ached, but his head hurt most of all. It was heavy and murky and throbbing in time with his pulse. The jagged pain left him nauseated and teetering on the edge of consciousness. He knew he would have already been on the ground if it hadn't been for Dean's support. Fighting with whatever he had left, which wasn't much, he tried to listen to what Dean was saying.

"...better not be falling asleep."

Sam tried to find his voice, tried to tell his brother that he definitely wasn't falling asleep. Exhausted as he was, sleep seemed impossible. Even Dean's confident insistence that he _needed_ to sleep through the night, and _would_ , thanks to some medicinal assistance, didn't make Sam feel any better. It only made him feel worse. He felt-

 _Pathetic._

Sam stiffened, imagining the devil's voice again.

 _You're pathetic._

Trying to ignore the voice, _memory,_ Sam wished he'd been able to keep the crazy to himself. Wished he could have kept it hidden, kept it buried. He'd spent hours torturing himself with the memories he couldn't forget; with the fears he couldn't face. The last thing he'd wanted was for Dean to catch him as he'd tried to outrun everything. He'd made it out the door, but he hadn't outrun anything. And everything hadn't just followed; it had _crushed_ him until he couldn't breathe. And then Dean had caught him as he'd collapsed under the weight of it all.

 _What a baby. You're hopeless, you know that?_

Sam shook his head against his brother's shoulder, fighting to keep his thoughts in the present. In reality. Dean's hand pressed against his head with gentle pressure, his other arm still around his shoulders.

"...not going to feel any warmer if we stay out here." Dean's voice filtered in over the memories.

"What?" Sam almost choked on the word. His mouth was dry and saying even that one word had aggravated the headache.

"We need to go inside."

He knew Dean was right, but still he hesitated. Because they weren't alone. The thought of facing anyone else right now had the chest pains starting up again. Mumbling into Dean's shirt, he said, "I can't breathe in there."

"Yeah, I know." Dean rubbed his back again as he said softly, "But you can't stay here."

For a moment, they fell silent and Sam listened to the sound of the waves behind him. He could feel Dean trembling and remembered how he'd been in the emergency room only hours before. Remembered that he was extremely sick. Sam could hear Dean's congested breaths, the way they were unsteady and too fast. Dean's skin was warm, which was good because Sam was freezing, and bad because he knew it meant his brother was running a fever.

Wishing he'd been able to sneak out of the house without Dean noticing, Sam knew they needed to get back inside for his brother's sake if for nothing else. Slowly, he shifted and pushed himself away from Dean. He landed on his butt, right hand pressed into the cold sand and Dean's hands on his shoulders, holding him up as the world spun in three different directions.

"Tell me before you go anywhere next time!"

Dean's blurry, worried face drifted in and out of focus in front of his eyes and Sam felt sick. Closing his eyes, he gave some serious thought to the merits of curling up right there in the sand and going to sleep. And then he wondered if he would even be _able_ to sleep if he tried. The chills shook him and he blindly reached out with his free hand until he caught hold of Dean's arm to steady himself.

"Sam?" Dean called his name, but Sam couldn't find his voice. "Come on, open your eyes. Need a little cooperation here-"

He wanted to cooperate, he really did. But his entire body seemed to have decided to throw in the towel and choose this as his permanent resting spot. It wasn't so bad, Sam thought. A little too cold, the ground a little too hard, but not the worst place to curl up and die. He felt Dean shaking, heard his frantic voice.

"Don't you dare." Dean's hands dug into his shoulders and halted his slow drift to the side. "Open your eyes."

Sam got his eyes open then tightened his grip on Dean's arm. Together they managed to get more or less upright. His heart was pounding in his ears and, if he focused hard enough, he could see Dean's lips moving. He had no idea what Dean was saying, but Sam figured he had a pretty good idea of the gist of it. So he tried to answer his brother and wasn't surprised when Dean stared at him like he had no idea what he'd just said.

 _He_ didn't know what he'd just said either.

Trying again, this time he managed not to sound like he'd been talking underwater. "Not... sure I can... get up."

Dean didn't relax his grip, but said, "Oh, ok. In that case I'll just go get you a blanket."

"Pillow?"

"What?"

"Can I have a pillow too?" Sam asked. He forced a quick smile even though he was dangerously close to taking Dean up on the offer.

It took a moment for his words to sink in, then Dean snorted and the tension that had settled over them dissipated. Dean shook his head and said, "Inside. Now."

"I wasn't joking," Sam whispered as Dean started to pull him up. _How is it even possible to be this tired?_ "I don't think I can-"

"Sure you can," Dean replied, not letting go. He grabbed Sam's upper arms and started pulling. "Dude, how can you weigh this much when you haven't eaten anything in days?"

"All muscle."

"Whatever." Dean huffed, holding him more or less steady.

Sam felt seasick as he got back to his knees. It was as if he were kneeling on a trampoline; the ground was solid, he knew it, but it seemed to give way beneath him whenever he shifted. He tightened his grip on Dean's arm, closing his eyes again and hoping he wouldn't throw up all over his brother.

"Come on." Dean huffed. "Not that far."

Sam lifted his head, trying to gauge how close they were to the house. His heart sank; it looked like it was miles away. Glancing at Dean, he realized his brother was every bit as done in as he was. He wished he'd waited. Waited until Dean had truly been asleep before he'd tried to get outside. Wished he'd been strong enough not to _need_ to go outside.

Wished the nightmare was over.

"Alright," Dean said, pulling his attention back to the current issue, "here we go."

It was discouraging how much difficulty Dean experienced getting to his feet. Even so, he didn't let go of Sam's arms. Once Dean was standing up, Sam took a deep breath and, together, they managed to get him on his feet.

"Hey! Hey, hey, come on, don't-" Dean's voice broke off abruptly.

Things went black, but it wasn't until his knees hit the ground that Sam even realized he was falling. The shock ran through his entire body and he groaned as the sharp pain slammed into his skull. He lost his grip on his brother and pressed his hands to his head. Dean was trying to slow his descent as he started slumping to the side.

Sam pulled away because the feeling of hands all over him was sending his mind to another time, another place. There was a tiny, logical part of his brain saying very reasonably that it was just his brother trying to help. But the rest of his brain was screaming he needed to get away.

And, of course, _that_ was the side of his brain that won the argument.

He tried to keep his eyes on his brother, to pay attention to what Dean was saying, but he couldn't. Not for the first time in his life, Sam wished the ground would just swallow him up. And then he remembered the time the ground _had_ swallowed him up. His chest hurt so bad he thought he might be having a heart attack. There was too much happening all at once and Sam had to close his eyes to block it all out.

* * *

Arla's fifteen minutes weren't quite up, but when he saw the boys struggle to their feet and immediately go down again, Tommy was heading to the door before she had the chance to tell him to.

"If you need me," Arla said, following him to the door, "wave and I'll come out to help."

Tommy frowned and paused. "You're not-"

She shook her head and he could see the conflict in her eyes. She _wanted_ to go out there right now, but something held her back.

Glancing past him at the sight outside, Arla said, "I don't know if my presence is going to help anything."

"Arla-"

"Just go." She squeezed his arm, pushing him toward the door. "They need someone to get them on their feet again. I'll come if you need me, but it might be better for Sam's sake if I stay away right now."

Beginning to understand her hesitation, he opened the door and said, "I'll let you know."

Once he was outside, Tommy could hear Dean's voice and see that he was trying to hold his brother upright. Sam wasn't making it easy for him. Although his movements were uncoordinated and weak, he was pushing away from Dean's touch. Crossing the yard at a sprint, Tommy got there in time to catch Sam as he leaned away from his brother and Dean lost his grip.

Sam flinched the instant he touched him and started fighting both of them. Tommy backed off, catching Dean's eyes and seeing the flash of gratitude overlaying the fear. He hadn't been sure how Dean would react to his presence. After the brief acknowledgement, Dean's attention returned fully to his brother.

"Calm down," Dean said, crowding Sam from the right side. "Come on, you're fine. It's just us. You're safe, remember?"

Sam didn't stop pulling away until he was completely free of their hands, but he finally met Dean's eyes and nodded. Tommy moved a pinch further away; close enough that he might still be able to catch Sam if he tipped over, but hopefully not too close to make him feel any more trapped than he already did. Dean didn't seem to care about personal space, though, and inched closer, trying to reach out and grab his brother again.

"Don't." Sam shook his head, still shying away and pushing himself backwards until Dean finally stopped trying to grab him.

Tommy watched them staring at each other and held his breath. Without knowing anything that had happened before he'd arrived, he was at a loss to know how to help. He'd come out planning to get them back inside, but obviously the crisis wasn't entirely over yet. Both of them were shaking and breathing hard as they stared at each other uncertainly.

"Are you with me?" Dean asked hoarsely after a few seconds of silence. It looked like it was taking all his willpower to avoid reaching out for his brother again.

Sam squeezed his eyes closed, one hand pressed into the sand to hold him up, the other outstretched to ward off any further contact. After a few seconds, Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean. His unfocused eyes started to look around, taking in his surroundings as if for the first time. Dean didn't move and neither did Tommy, but Sam still jumped when he realized he and his brother weren't alone anymore. Afraid that he'd made things worse by coming outside, Tommy remained motionless as he watched Sam study him for a few seconds.

"Tommy?" Sam stared at him with a frown.

Offering a small smile, Tommy said softly, "It's me, Sam."

Sam stared at him for another moment, trying to keep his eyes open. His breathing began to calm although he was still shaking and wavering where he sat. He looked back at Dean and lowered his hand.

"You with me?" Dean asked again, not moving. "Sam?"

"I'm with you," Sam said, voice broken and unsteady. It sounded like he was surprised by his own admission.

Dean smiled and his relief was obvious. He held out his hands and asked, "You ok if I catch you before you fall over?"

Sam nodded and Dean moved faster than Tommy'd expected. He caught Sam just as the arm holding him up started to collapse. Sam leaned against him and closed his eyes. Dean wrapped his arms around him instantly but lost his own balance and wound up sitting in the sand too.

Tommy wondered if it were time to call for backup. Dean was having a difficult time holding on to Sam, but shook his head when Tommy moved a tentative inch closer. Ceasing movement, Tommy waited.

Dean didn't take his eyes off his brother as he said, "I'm gonna need some help."

Realizing Dean was talking to him, Tommy said, "Whatever you need."

"Thanks." He still hadn't looked away from his brother. "Sam? Tommy's gonna help me get you off the ground. Ok?"

Tommy watched as Sam slowly opened his eyes. He started pushing himself upright and whispered, "Yeah."

"Ok." Dean nodded, waving his free hand.

Tommy moved closer at Dean's invitation. Sam didn't react when he cautiously took his arm. Waiting for Dean to direct things, Tommy met his gaze and immediately realized Dean wasn't ready to direct anything. He looked every bit as sick as his brother, and for a split second, Tommy thought maybe it made more sense to try to get them back inside one at a time since neither of them was steady.

But he dismissed the thought immediately. Keeping his voice soft and slow, Tommy took over directing things. "Let's start by getting you both back on your feet."

Sam closed his eyes, but started to move. It would have been easier, of course, had Dean been at full strength, but after a few minutes of struggling, they were all three standing. More or less. Sam started sagging as soon as he was on his feet and Tommy was afraid he'd passed out. Supporting most of his weight when it became obvious Dean wasn't steady enough himself to handle it, Tommy held on and waited. After a few seconds, Sam got his legs under him and straightened. Dean was breathing like he'd run a mile, but he was still standing too.

Once Sam had his balance, he pulled away from both of them ever so slightly and took a step forward. Dean stumbled when he stepped forward, muttering under his breath and grabbing at his brother's arm. Sam tried to pull away again, but Dean wouldn't let him this time. Sam finally gave up the struggle and allowed the assistance. Tommy stayed close and only intervened when, after they'd made it almost halfway to the porch, Sam tripped.

Dean nearly hit the ground, but managed to recover himself before it was too late. Tommy was glad because he was having enough trouble keeping Sam from falling. The jarring movement of the stumble left Sam clutching his head with both hands and crumpling forward as he moaned in pain. Dean recovered quicker than Tommy had expected and was supporting his brother from the right side.

"Hang on," Dean said, sounding like he was nearly finished. He was breathless and shaking as badly as his brother was. "Almost there-"

They weren't 'almost there' enough for Tommy's liking. He glanced up and saw Arla standing on the porch, holding the door open. Waiting. About ready to call for her, Tommy felt both of the boys getting their feet under them. He glanced at Dean and saw the concern in his eyes when Sam whispered how bad his head hurt. Wrapping his arm around his brother's waist, Dean tugged him forward gently. Tommy missed some of it, but he did pick up on a few words of the boys conversation as they walked.

"You're like a jellyfish," Dean muttered breathlessly, adjusting his grasp around his brother.

"What?"

"Boneless."

"You're such a jerk." Sam laughed half-heartedly, then groaned and put his hands to his head again.

"Sorry," Dean whispered as they reached the porch steps. "Almost...just...just a little more...ok?"

Sam didn't respond, but lowered his hands and started up the steps. By the time they were on the porch, he was walking slower, but standing a little straighter. Arla held the door open for them and Dean offered her a soft _thank you_ as they walked inside. Tommy smiled at her, knowing how much it was killing her not to be more actively helping. She didn't smile, but nodded and closed the door behind them, still keeping her distance.

They headed toward the staircase and Tommy knew it was going to be a challenge. Sam's head was lowered and his eyes were only open about half the time but he was still moving forward which was more than he'd ever expected.

Reaching the staircase, Tommy stole a quick glance at Dean. From his expression, the looming ordeal was more than Dean felt up to facing. But face it he did, and Tommy wasn't the only one heaving a sigh of relief when they reached the top of the stairs.

Movement ceased as everyone paused to catch their breath. Dean met his eyes and the exhaustion didn't diminish the gratitude. He shifted his grip a little and Sam leaned more into him as Dean stepped forward with a quiet _thanks._ Taking it as his cue, Tommy nodded. He remained where he was and allowed them to continue on their own into the bedroom.

Dean closed the door halfway then Tommy headed downstairs.

* * *

If it were possible to die of embarrassment, Sam knew he would've been dead already. It had been bad enough that Dean had to witness him losing his mind. Knowing _everyone_ was awake and involved this time made it even worse.

Once they walked into the bedroom, though, he stopped thinking about the embarrassment and started thinking about crawling under a hundred quilts and sleeping for the rest of his life. He'd been shivering the entire time, but getting into the warmth of the house only served to clearly show him how cold he was. The brightness of the room had him squeezing his eyes closed and trusting Dean to guide him forward. After what seemed like forever, he sank down onto the edge of the mattress and was one deep breath away from sleep. Or at least from unconsciousness. He still wasn't sure he was going to be able to sleep.

"Stay awake." Dean squeezed his shoulder. "Do not fall asleep yet. Get your shoes off."

Sam groaned, bending forward, hands pressed to his throbbing eyeballs. Anything beyond burying his head under the pillow and letting go of consciousness seemed like too much work. Forcing himself to move, he kicked his shoes off and was about to fall over onto the bed when Dean caught him.

"Not yet. I'm gonna turn off the overhead light, ok?"

Wavering where he sat, hands still pressed to his eyes, Sam didn't know why he had to stay where he was while Dean turned the light off. He listened to Dean flipping on the lamp on the nightstand and could hear Dean moving around again, but didn't bother opening his eyes to see if the overhead light had gone out. For a minute, he lost track of where Dean was and what he was doing.

"Sam."

Dean was next to him all of a sudden, so Sam squinted up at him. The light in the room was muted now and he wished it had done something to alleviate the pounding in his head. But it really hadn't and he tried to focus on Dean when what he really wanted to do was fall over. His heart jumped when he saw the glass of water Dean was holding.

Sam stared at the water and tried not to look at Dean's other hand. Because he didn't want to see the pills he knew Dean was holding. The details of their conversation outside were already fuzzy, but he remembered enough. And he might have begrudgingly accepted what Dean had said outside, but now he was finding it difficult to follow through.

He shook his head.

"Sammy, please."

The desperation in Dean's voice drew his attention and he looked up. Even through the fog, he was shocked at the darkness under Dean's eyes. The stark white pallor of his skin. The way his entire body was trembling. The way he sounded like he was pleading. So Sam nodded and held out a hand.

This time Dean was the one shaking his head. "Don't do it because you think I'm making you. Ok? Because that's not what I'm doing. If you aren't ok with this, I'll put them back."

For a moment, Sam considered his brother's offer. He didn't want to touch the pills. Not even with his brother in charge of them and ensuring he wouldn't do something he'd regret.

It had been so long since he'd been able to think clearly that the sound of more drugs messing with his head turned his stomach. Of course, he wasn't thinking clearly as it was, so what was the difference anyway? What was another few pills at this point?

 _Pills? You do get that you're just bringing free drugs to the party, right?_

His skin crawled, remembering the devil's words. Remembering the drugs. The _actual_ drugs. He didn't have a clear memory of what had happened, but he did remember being out on the street and taking something that he never would have touched had he been in his right mind. At that point, he would have taken or done _anything_ to give himself some relief from the eternity of being awake.

Swallowing hard, Sam forced himself to meet Dean's eyes as he admitted, "I don't think I can sleep."

"I know." And Dean sounded like the thought was hurting _him_ as much as it was hurting Sam.

"What are they?"

"Two painkillers and two of the...uh...meds to help you sleep."

"The ones for _anxiety,_ " Sam supplied, hating himself for saying it aloud. It was better than Dean trying to cover it up and make it seem like something it wasn't, though.

"It's not a dirty word, Sam." Dean sighed, crouching down and holding his gaze. "If I'd had the devil in my head, doing what he was doing to you all this time, I'd be feeling pretty damned anxious right now, too. This isn't longterm. It's just for tonight ok? You've gotta sleep."

Sam closed his eyes and gave some very strong consideration to the thought of making another run. Dismissing the idea immediately, he held his hand out again, met Dean's eyes and said, "Ok."

Dean studied him a minute longer. He dropped the pills into Sam's hand. Sam stared at them. They felt heavy and they felt wrong and he wished he didn't have to take them. Wished he didn't _need_ to take them. But he did. Because right now, at this moment, he felt as bad as he'd felt when he was sitting in the psychiatric hospital, exhausted beyond words, yet unable to even close his eyes. Maybe this time, without the devil in his head, he could actually sleep.

Taking the pills with a drink of water, he fought the urge to throw them right back up. Squeezing his eyes closed, he felt Dean take the glass from his hand. He didn't know how much time had passed, but he felt Dean's hand on his shoulder and heard him say, "Lay down."

Shaking his head, he gripped the edge of the mattress with both hands.

"Sam?"

"I...I can't do this."

Dean sighed again and the hand on his shoulder disappeared. Sam shivered, feeling even colder without the contact. The bed dipped and then he felt Dean's shoulder against his.

"Sam, you have to sleep. It's not exactly optional."

He didn't bother to say anything. What was there to say? At this point, he didn't even know _why_ he couldn't sleep. Maybe it was simply that he'd become so used to _not_ sleeping that he had forgotten _how_ to sleep.

Dean elbowed him and Sam almost tipped over, his balance was so bad. Dean sounded matter-of-fact as he said, "I'm gonna turn the radio off. You just need to let the medicine work. You can't go on like this. It's gonna kill you."

Whether it was his brother's voice or it was the medications, Sam started to lose track of what was going on and the awful sensation of being drugged drifted through him. It barely registered at first, then he realized the radio was off and the room was silent.

He lifted his head and searched for his brother. Catching Dean's eye, he said, "No. Leave it on."

Dean shook his head and Sam had to close his eyes again because the movement left him feeling like the room was spinning. Dean's hands were on his shoulders as he said, "You don't need it. You need to sleep."

And then he found himself flat on the bed, head on the pillow without ever having noticed the change in position. His eyes were heavy and he couldn't quite get them open, but he managed to push himself back upright, even though he couldn't maintain the position for long.

"Don't." Dean's voice was close and his hand pressed against his chest. "Don't sit up."

"Dean, I can't...I can't do this." Sam tried to make his brother understand.

Panic was at war with the artificial lassitude the drugs were giving him. The blankets Dean pulled up over him felt like they were made of steel; trapping him where he lay. He needed to get up, needed to get free. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to push Dean's hand away.

The hand didn't leave his chest and Dean said, "I want you to tell me something."

"What?" Sam frowned, at a loss.

His already impaired vision was going double and Dean wasn't making any sense. Heart pounding in his ears, Sam tightened his fingers around his brother's wrist as the drowning feeling swept back over him. The chest pains were back too and he was almost gasping for air when he heard Dean talking.

"Tell me something you remember." Dean's voice was even softer and he sounded tired. "From when we were kids."

"I...don't...I don't know." Sam stared up at him, still trying to push Dean's hand away. He couldn't figure out what Dean had meant and trying to sort the question out was making the headache worse.

"One thing. Something you remember."

Sam closed his eyes and tried to focus. It was so difficult to think. _When we were kids. When we were kids._ Sometimes it felt like they never had been kids, but then Sam remembered-

"The tree-house," he whispered, looking up at his brother and wondering if he had the right answer.

Dean smiled. "It was a great tree-house."

"It sucked. Even Bobby said so." Sam saw the flash of hurt? Pain? in Dean's eyes and knew he'd said something wrong, done something wrong, but he couldn't remember what. He stopped shoving at his brother's hand and let his his arm drop to his side.

"Yeah, he did say that," Dean said, his smile returning briefly. "It did kind of suck but it was also pretty great. Had a rope to get up-"

"Because a ladder was too easy." Sam remembered how Dean had insisted a rope was way better than a ladder. He tried to keep his eyes on his brother, but it was getting more and more difficult.

"Exactly. What else?"

"Else?"

"What else do you remember?"

Sam closed his eyes and didn't bother to open them again. "I...remember the time...you got th' fireworks."

His words were starting to run together and he couldn't quite untangle them, but it sounded like Dean knew what he was talking about when he said, "Burned down the field."

"You remember that?"

"Of course I do." Dean's voice was softer, seeming farther away, but his hand was still warm against Sam's chest.

Deciding it was his turn, Sam asked, "What else?"

"I remember the time you mowed the lawn for the guy up the street." Dean sounded amused. "You were like ten and the mower weighed more than you did, but you got the lawn done and he gave you a whole twenty. Remember what you spent it on?"

Eyes still closed, Sam smiled at the memory. He'd been so proud when he'd come back from the corner store and surprised Dean with a soda and candy bar for each of them. Saving the rest up until Christmas along with every other penny he'd earned the rest of that summer, he'd been able to buy Dean a decent Christmas present. The only one he got that year.

"I still have those albums," Dean said proudly, following Sam's train of thought.

Obviously _March ör Die_ by Motorhead and _Carry On_ by Kansas had been good choices. Sam had known at the time they would be.

The room fell silent and Sam almost _almost_ fell asleep. But then he _realized_ he was about to fall asleep. Like a switch flipped, the panic surged through his veins again and his eyes flew open. He tried to sit up, but he didn't have any strength left. Dean held him back easily with the hand on his chest and Sam couldn't move.

Dean leaned closer and looked him in the eye as he said, "You're fine. Just stop fighting it, ok? You've been fighting this too long. Go to sleep, Sam. I'm right here."

Sam closed his eyes, wishing he felt as confident as his brother seemed to be. It took some time before he was able to breathe more easily. Longer before his heart rate slowed closer to normal. But eventually, his mind started to shut down and he could feel himself relaxing back into the mattress. He listened to Dean's congested breathing and knew he was safe. Knew Dean was right there. Or was he? He'd been wrong before.

He opened his eyes, heart rate doubling.

"Sam?" Dean looked at him, frowning. "What's wrong?"

Sam swallowed hard and whispered, "Just makin' sure."

Dean didn't need further explanation. He nodded slowly then started talking about more things that had happened when they were kids. Sam closed his eyes and listened. It had been years since they'd talked about this stuff and, tired as he was, he was still surprised at how much his brother remembered. Things he'd long forgotten, Dean talked about as if they'd happened yesterday. As his brother talked, Sam found it more and more difficult to pay attention to what was being said.

And then there was nothing stopping him and he fell into the darkness surrounded by a feeling of warmth and safety as he listened to his brother talk.

* * *

Arla wasn't hovering.

She also wasn't pacing or eavesdropping or biting her nails. Tommy had it under control. He'd had it under control outside and he had managed to get both boys upstairs again without an issue. So she returned to the kitchen and started thinking about cupcakes.

When Tommy walked in a few minutes later, she'd gone as far as to have the cookbook out and opened to the cupcake chapter.

"Arla, you're not baking cupcakes at two in the morning," Tommy's amused voice stole her attention from the flimsy distraction of baked goods.

"How are they?" She looked up, closing the book immediately.

He shrugged, sitting down next to her at the breakfast bar.

"That is not an answer."

"I know it's not an answer. I guess the answer is that I don't know how they are."

Arla studied him. His concern was evident, but he didn't look quite as worried as he had when he'd gone outside. Feeling a bit of relief, she asked, "Do they need me right now?"

"Give them a few minutes."

"Ok. Use those few minutes to fill me in."

Tommy smiled then gave her a brief synopsis of what had happened.

She didn't like it, but had to admit it wasn't exactly as bad as it could have been. "I'm glad they allowed you to help."

"They'd still be out there if they hadn't," Tommy said somberly, no amusement in his eyes this time. "Neither of them were doing well. Sam looked like a picture of health compared to his brother."

"I need to-"

"Give them some time."

Arla shook her head, every single fiber of her being telling her to run upstairs right now and start triaging her patients. "Tommy, they need-"

He squeezed her hand and said, "They need to catch their breaths. They need a minute to sort themselves out. And _then_ they're gonna need you to take care of them. We already knew what they've been going through is more than just physical illness. They're both sick, no doubt, but this has taken a toll on them mentally and emotionally. I have no idea what went on before I got outside, but I have a feeling things may be different tomorrow."

"Better?" Arla asked hopefully.

"I think so." Tommy smiled. "I can't say for sure, but I think they made some progress with each other out there."

"I certainly hope so!"

"Me too." He tapped the cookbook. "You were really going to bake cupcakes weren't you?"

Arla felt the blush creep up her face. He full well _knew_ she had been ready to bake cupcakes.

Tommy laughed. "Well, I never have complained about your method of stress relief."

Punching him gently in his middle, which had grown slightly more ample over the past few years, Arla said, "Maybe we need to take up running again."

"I have a doctor's excuse." He grinned, patting his left knee. "I can't run anymore."

Rolling her eyes, Arla said, "You were supposed to back off after surgery, not give it up entirely."

"So you'd start running with me again if I got back into it?"

"Shut up." She smacked him in the arm this time. It was no secret that she hated running with a vengeance. Running had been _his_ preferred brand of stress relief, not hers.

He laughed and pulled her closer for a kiss. Settling into his embrace, Arla couldn't help but stare at the clock and think about how long the boys had been upstairs and what they might need and-

"Go check on them," Tommy said softly, brushing his hand through her hair and kissing her forehead.

Straightening up, she asked, "You think I should?"

"I think you should," Tommy replied, squeezing her hand. "It's been long enough now that they're probably feeling a little less overwhelmed."

Arla nodded. She'd given them their time, now she needed to assure herself that they were ok. She stood up and said, "You should go ahead and get some sleep, Tommy. I may not come back to bed tonight."

"I was already figuring we might be taking shifts for the next few days. Take your time. Holler if you need me."

"I will."

Arla headed upstairs, not sure what to expect. Everything was quiet as she walked up the stairs. There was a pale light from the first bedroom and she paused just before she reached the doorway. She didn't hear anything and decided to take a chance and push open the half-closed door.

The radio was off for the first time in days and only the little lamp on the nightstand lit the room. Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head resting in his hands. There were several balled up tissues on the floor at his feet and she could hear his congested breathing from the doorway.

Looking beyond Dean's miserable form, Arla saw Sam sound asleep on the bed behind him. Even in sleep, he looked drained and sick. But he also appeared to be sleeping comfortably and deeply which was as much a relief as it was a surprise. Attention returning to Dean, Arla hovered in the doorway. She was uncertain if she should make her presence known or not. But she couldn't leave him sitting there. He needed to sleep as much as his brother did.

"Dean?" she whispered, taking a step into the room.

He didn't look up. It took three steps closer and two more times calling his name before he lowered his hands. Bloodshot eyes peered up at her and Arla knew Tommy had hardly been exaggerating when he'd said Sam looked healthy compared to his brother. Arla wanted to wrap Dean up in a big hug and then tuck him into bed for a month. He looked awful. She pulled the desk chair over in front of him and sat down, resting her hand on his arm.

"Dean?"

He didn't respond, but held her gaze. She squeezed his arm and waited. He was struggling to remain upright and she could see the bright flush of fever on his face. Being outside had not been good for him and neither was sitting up all night.

"Honey, you need to lie down now," she whispered.

He shook his head slowly and looked away.

Arla touched his cheek and drew his gaze back. "Dean, you're sick. You need to sleep, just like your brother does."

"He...he took the pills," Dean said, frowning and turning to look at his brother.

"That's good. He needs to sleep."

Arla was surprised to hear that Sam had taken anything, but she was relieved that he had. He'd gone too long without sleep. She took a quick glance at him and knew it wouldn't be easy to get Dean away from his brother. But he needed to be in bed. She squeezed Dean's arm again.

"I'll stay with-" Arla started, but was interrupted before she could finish.

"I gave him...two of each kind." Dean's worried gaze returned to her. "Did I...was it too much?"

"What you did was fine. It's what I would have done, too. I think he'll sleep for awhile now."

"He still didn't want to take 'em."

"Sometimes what we want and what we need are very different things," Arla said gently. "You gave him what he needed."

Dean didn't look reassured. "It took him a long time to fall asleep-"

It hadn't really been that long but, to Dean, she was certain it had felt like forever. He was looking back at his brother and she knew he would sit there for the next week if she didn't intervene. Arla tried again, "It's time for you to lay down and get some sleep."

Dean looked up at her, his desperation bringing tears to her eyes as he whispered, "I need to be here."

"No. You don't need to be here." Arla shook her head, putting her hand against his overly warm cheek again. She blinked back the tears, smiled and said, "You _want_ to stay with Sam, but you _need_ to get some sleep. I will stay with him and I promise I will come get you if he needs you. Ok?"

"Arla-"

"Dean, the next few days are probably going to be very difficult for him." Arla decided to try a different tact. "He is going to need your support and you're not going to be able to support him if you don't take care of yourself."

It was obvious she wasn't getting through to him. Sighing, she gave actual, serious thought to the merits of slipping Dean an enthusiastic dose of a heavy sedative. Instead, Arla figured she could give him another minute while she ran downstairs for some Tylenol and a decongestant.

"You're running a fever so I'm going to go get you some Tylenol. Stay with him until I get back, ok?"

Dean didn't answer, but rested his head in his hands again. Knowing he would be there when she returned, Arla pushed herself to her feet to rush back downstairs. She found Tommy still in the kitchen and asked, "What are you doing?"

He turned around and she couldn't help but smile when she saw the cookie in his hand. Shrugging, Tommy said, "I got hungry."

"Well I suppose I can't argue with you on that. I'm a bit hungry, too."

"How's it going up there?"

"Sam's asleep; he took some of the medicine."

"That's good!"

"Yes, it is. Dean's reluctant to leave him, though." She selected the correct medications. "And he's running a fever again."

Tommy filled a glass with water for her. "I'm not surprised. What's your plan?"

"Get Dean to take the medicine and somehow convince him go to bed. I'm going to stay with Sam and you're going to get some sleep so you can take over tomorrow if need be while I get some sleep."

"Good plan. Do you want me to make you a cup of tea before I go back to bed?"

Arla gave him a kiss on her way by. "That would be amazing. Bring me up a cookie or two as well, ok?"

"Sure."

"Just give me a few minutes to try to get him settled," Arla said over her shoulder.

When she walked back into the room, Dean looked up. She smiled, holding out the glass and the pills. He stared at the glass for a moment, then reached for it. She gave him the pills and he downed them quickly, then gave the glass back.

Setting it on the bedside table, she sat back down in the chair in front of him again and said quietly, "Dean, I know this isn't easy, but you need to let me help you right now."

He was studying her silently, but not arguing so she continued.

"From everything you've told me, you boys are feeling very alone right now." She tried to be cautious with what she was saying, yet still get her point across. "It sounds like you've recently lost two very close, trusted friends. And Sam has been sick for a long time. Do you want to know what I think?"

Arla waited, but he remained silent. _At least he's listening to me..._

"I think your entire support system has collapsed and you're hanging on with everything you've got left to take care of your brother," she said, squeezing his hand. "Will you please let me and Tommy be _your_ support system right now? Let me help you, Dean."

It took a full minute before he relented. He nodded, eyes closing and all the tension melting out of him. Catching him as he slumped forward, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders. His head came to rest on her shoulder and she gently rubbed the back of his neck with her free hand as she listened to his labored breathing. After a few seconds, she felt him nod again and begin to straighten.

Backing off, she gave him a moment to gather himself, then she rose, pushed the chair out of the way, and held out a hand. Dean accepted it and she helped drag him to his feet. Arla caught him as he swayed where he stood and wrapped an arm around his waist. He settled his own arm over her shoulders. Watching him closely, Arla was relieved when he reopened his eyes and didn't pull away.

He looked back at his brother, and she wondered if he was going to change his mind. But then he started walking toward the door. She didn't let go of him as they walked. He paused in the doorway, his free hand braced on the door frame.

"Dean?"

"Yeah." He sounded out of breath.

She tightened her grip around his waist, feeling him trembling. "Not too much farther."

"Seems a lot farther...than it did earlier."

Arla smiled, hearing the humor in his tone. It took another minute before they started walking again and every step was slower than the last. He was leaning more heavily against her and she started to wonder if she shouldn't have had Tommy come up to help. Finally reaching the bed, Dean slumped down, breathing heavily.

"Dean?"

"I'm ok."

They both knew better, but she didn't comment.

He kicked his shoes off, looked up at her and said, "Let me know...if-"

"I'll come get you," Arla promised, piling up the pillows behind him. "I'll stay with him while you get some sleep. You're still very sick, young man. And I for one would appreciate not having to take you back to the emergency room again."

That earned her a tired smile. It faded quickly and he whispered, "Thank you. For everything."

"You're very welcome." Arla gently pushed him back toward the pillows and pulled the covers up over him.

He settled under them, eyes barely open. Grabbing two extra pillows from the closet, she eased him up a pinch more until he looked more comfortable and his breathing eased a little. Making sure the tissues were close to him, she hurried back into the other room to grab the glass of water. Dean forced his eyes open when she walked back in and he watched as she placed the glass on the nightstand.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Arla smiled and said, "If you need anything tonight, I'll just be across the hall. Do not hesitate to call me if you need me. Understood?"

He gave her a quick thumbs up, already more asleep than awake.

Squeezing his hand and tucking the covers around him, she whispered, "Now, go to sleep."

One breath later and he did just that.

All she could hope now was that both of them were finally going to get some of the rest they desperately needed.

* * *

 **Yeah! Arla finally got to mother one of them and tuck him up into bed! :D Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	30. Chapter 30

**Hi! Thank you all for the wonderful reviews and birthday wishes! Hope you will enjoy chapter 30!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 30**_

The sun was bright through the blinds when Dean opened his eyes. For a long time, he lay there, eyes half-opened. His entire body was heavy, but his thoughts drifted and floated away when he tried to collect them. By the time he'd regained enough sense to look at the clock, most of his memories were back in place.

Eleven-thirty.

Blinking in case his vision was just that bad, Dean stared at the clock. It was definitely eleven-thirty. He lifted a heavy hand to rub at his face as he pushed himself upright. Swaying where he sat, Dean kept a hand pressed to the mattress. The change in position unleashed a round of coughing that left him breathless. Wrapping an arm around his hurting middle, Dean reached for a tissue in the nick of time to sneeze into it. Recovering from all of that exertion took a moment, but by the time he dropped the crumpled up tissue to the floor, he felt a little better. Which wasn't saying much considering how crappy he felt.

He thought he might be hungry if not for the burning in the pit of his unsettled stomach. Pressing a hand against his stomach, he looked up and found the door half-closed. Looking at the clock again, Dean's heart fluttered in a spasm of worry.

 _Sam._

It was eleven-thirty in the morning and Dean couldn't remember when Arla had finally pushed him into bed. He'd slept for who knew how long and left Sam on his own for all that time. Getting to his feet, Dean sat back down almost immediately. Taking a few shaky breaths, he was trying to regain his focus when he heard a soft voice at the door.

"Dean?"

He looked up to find Arla standing in the doorway with a smile. It made him feel a little better, but not enough, so he asked, "Sam?"

"He's still asleep," Arla said, stepping into the room.

Her movements were unhurried and she seemed calm so Dean started thinking maybe things were ok after all. Even so, he couldn't quite lay his worry to rest yet. Rather than risk falling on his face in front of her, Dean stayed where he was and went on, "Has he-"

"He's been sleeping. All night," Arla answered his unfinished question.

"So he didn't wake up?"

"Not once."

"No nightmares?"

"No."

Dean breathed out a heavy sigh, the relief washing over him and nearly knocking him over. Both hands against the mattress, he said, "Thanks for staying with him."

Arla nodded, then asked, "How are you feeling?"

Smiling briefly, he knew better than to try to pull anything over on her. So he shrugged. "Feel like crap. Can't believe we slept this long, though."

"You both were overdue for a good sleep."

"Yeah." He studied her, knowing she hadn't slept at all. Feeling guilty about it, Dean said, "I'll go sit with him now. You can get some rest."

Arla smiled and shook her head. "I took a nap earlier. Tommy stayed with Sam for a few hours just in case. I'm ok. And what you're doing next is eating something and taking your medications."

Dean wanted to protest, but knew arguing with her would be futile. So he simply nodded.

"Alright." Arla looked pleased with his easy agreement. "How about I run downstairs and grab everything. You don't look like you feel up to doing much right now."

And that was the simple truth. He already wanted to lie back down and close his eyes. So he nodded again and then Arla left him. He pushed himself to his feet as soon as she'd gone. Her footsteps had faded down the stairs by the time he'd dragged himself to the door. Leaning against it, he paused to catch his breath. He felt chilled and his head was throbbing, but he forced himself to continue across the hall.

Reaching the other bedroom, Dean paused again to lean against the doorway. And, finally, the nervous flutter in his chest died down. The little light on the nightstand was still on, but there was enough light filtering in through the blinds that it really wasn't necessary. Dean crept quietly into the room and sank down into the desk chair that was positioned near the edge of the bed.

Sam was sound asleep in the same position he'd been in when Dean had last seen him. There wasn't a sign of tension on his face or in his body and his breathing was calm and even. He may have been resting comfortably, but the shadows under his eyes weren't gone and he still looked sick.

Dean sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He knew a little sleep wasn't going to be a miracle cure and he'd have been lying if he'd said he wasn't more than a little terrified of what might happen when Sam finally did wake up.

"Dean?"

He straightened and turned at Arla's soft whisper. She stepped into the room and spread a few things out on the desk. Shifting the chair slightly, Dean softly asked, "Shouldn't he be waking up by now?"

Arla spared a quick glance at Sam, then said, "Not necessarily. He needs the sleep. You both have a lot of catching up to do. He'll wake up when he's ready. Just like you did."

Nodding, Dean accepted the medications she offered and forced himself to eat some of the food. It was exactly what the discharge instructions would have referred to as _bland,_ but, even though it wasn't anything too exciting and burned like fire going down, it tasted amazing. Dean managed to eat everything including the apple muffin.

Finishing up, he glanced around and realized Arla had stepped out at some point. Taking another sip of water, Dean turned his attention to his brother for a moment. It didn't look like Sam had any intention of waking up anytime soon, so Dean decided he might as well take a quick shower. He was almost 100% awake by now and hopefully a shower would wake him up the rest of the way.

* * *

By the time he'd finished in the shower, gotten dressed, and wandered back into Sam's room, Dean was exhausted. He slumped into the chair and gave serious consideration to just going back to bed. Sam had made it all night without him. But just as he'd made his decision to leave, he caught sight of purposeful movement. Movement that led him to believe his brother was actually going to wake up.

Dean gave him a couple minutes to sort himself out. After Sam had opened his eyes a few times and stared at him like he wasn't seeing anything at all, Dean decided to take his chances.

He kept his voice low and his hopes even lower as he said, "Hey."

Sam tilted his head toward his voice and struggled to keep his eyes open. After a few seconds, he started to focus. He shifted uncomfortably, squeezing his eyes closed again, then mouthed Dean's name.

Leaning a bit closer, Dean said, "Right here."

Silence fell for a few seconds and Dean didn't try to break it. He could tell Sam was struggling to wake up and maintain focus. When he looked a little less lost, Dean asked, "Sam? How you doin'?"

Sam briefly met his eyes and whispered, "My head-"

Seeing how uncomfortable he was, Dean asked, "Do you want to try another pill? It's been hours since you fell asleep."

Sam didn't open his eyes this time. Nor did he exactly answer Dean's question when he said, "I don't feel good."

"I know. Small steps, ok?" Dean tried to sound upbeat although his tiny hint of optimism was already taking a beating. "You just slept for ten hours. You haven't eaten and you took some heavy duty meds. You're gonna feel like crap for awhile."

"Ten?"

"Give or take.

"Need to get up." Sam was pushing at the blankets but having absolutely no success at accomplishing anything.

"Ok, ok, hold on." Dean started to help. "Slow down."

Sam didn't seem inclined to slow down, though. Now that he'd started moving and made up his mind he wanted up, he didn't quit until he had his legs over the edge of the bed. Dean caught him by the shoulders when he began to list forward.

"Hey, hey, do not go anywhere." Dean pushed him upright. "Sam?"

Sam had his eyes squeezed closed, breathing uneven. He reached out a fumbling hand until he caught hold of Dean's shirt. For a moment, neither moved. Dean waited quietly as color slowly went back into Sam's cheeks and he began to look a little less like he was about to pass out. When Sam got his eyes open again, Dean started to relax. Sam waved a hand.

"What?" Dean asked, frowning.

"Help me up."

So he helped him up and then helped him across the hall to the bathroom. And then he waited at the door that had been pointedly shut in his face. He glanced down the stairs when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Arla was standing there, looking up with a question in her eyes. Taking a quick look at the still closed door, Dean took a couple steps away and held up a hand and shook his head. She nodded, but still looked concerned. So he smiled and gave her a thumbs up. That made her smile.

She said softly, but loud enough for him to hear, "Let me know if you need anything."

Dean nodded and she walked away. He turned back as the bathroom door opened. Sam was leaning against the door frame and obviously wasn't going to be on his feet much longer. Wordlessly, Dean grabbed his arm and guided him back to the bed. Sam didn't offer a word of disagreement with the unspoken plan and leaned heavily against him.

Once he was settled on the bed, Sam looked up with bleary, unfocused eyes and asked, "Time's it?"

"It's just after noon." Dean shrugged. "You haven't missed much."

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"You should try to eat something."

Lowering his hand, Sam sighed again and Dean decided that was probably the best response he was going to get.

"You ok to stay there for a minute?"

Sam nodded again.

Dean studied him. "What do you want?"

"I don't know."

"Some toast? She's got some muffins."

Sam shrugged.

"Anything sound good?"

"No."

"Alrighty." Dean hadn't expected anything different. "I'll be back in a bit, then you can take something for the headache, ok?"

"Yeah."

He left him there and headed downstairs. Arla hadn't gone far and met him before he'd reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Dean?"

"He's ok," Dean said, with a shrug. "Relatively speaking anyway. Needs to eat something."

Arla nodded, turning to walk to the kitchen. "Did he want something specific?"

"Nothing sounded good to him."

"I'm not surprised," Arla said, pulling out a chair. "Sit down and I'll see what I can find."

"Thanks." Dean sank gratefully into the chair and rested his head in his hands.

He listened to Arla in the kitchen and thought about how things could have gone much differently if he had refused her help that night at the cabin. It was actually rather disturbing to consider.

"How was he, Dean?"

Dean straightened and watched Arla moving around the kitchen. "He doesn't feel good. Headache. I don't know. He's not really chatty."

"I'm sure he's not. Give him another day or two." Arla smiled, walking toward the table with a plate in her hand. "See if any of this looks good to him."

"Thanks." Dean pushed himself to his feet and accepted the plate.

There was a little of everything and he was grateful again for her hospitality. And the fact that she cooked and baked. She handed him a glass of water to go along with it, patted him on the shoulder, then let him go.

He took a deep breath, not sure he was ready to face his brother again. Dean wasn't sure where they went from here. But now wasn't the time to deal with anything other than getting Sam to try to eat something.

Reaching the doorway, he sighed. It wasn't like he was exactly shocked to find Sam wasn't still sitting where he'd left him. Even so, he'd hoped maybe he would've still been upright. It just meant a little extra work was needed before Sam was going to eat.

"Sam?" Dean asked softly, setting the plate and glass on the bedside table.

"Hm?" Sam didn't open his eyes and he didn't show any inclination of sitting up anytime soon. He was curled up on his side, buried under the blankets and shivering.

"You need to eat something."

"Too cold."

Dean watched him for a moment wondering about things like hypothermia and fevers and if he should get Arla. "You want something hot to drink?"

Sam shook his head.

"Ok. Then you need to eat something."

"Just let me sleep."

Dean would have teased him for whining except Sam looked awful enough to deserve a pass. "You still have the headache?"

"Yeah."

"Then you're gonna sit up and eat and take something for the headache. You can go back to sleep after."

Sam opened his eyes and glared at him.

"Oh stop with the dirty looks," Dean said, pushing gently on his shoulder. "You know you're not going to get any sleep if you don't take something for the headache. Come on. Sit up. Five minutes. All I'm asking. Five minutes."

His five minutes were almost entirely spent simply getting Sam sitting upright again. Once he was, though, Dean didn't hesitate to put the plate in front of him. As if it were the most challenging puzzle he'd ever faced, Sam stared at it for another minute before finally selecting the blueberry muffin.

Silently cheering, Dean kept his mouth shut until Sam had finished half the muffin. Handing him the glass of water when Sam pushed the plate into his hands, Dean asked, "You want Tylenol or the good stuff?"

Sam held the glass with both hands and rested his forearms against his knees. Eyes pointed at the floor, he whispered, "I just need to sleep. I don't need-"

"Yes you do." Dean cut him off. "You're not going to lay there in pain all day. You _do_ need to sleep. And you're going to. After we take care of the headache."

"Dean-"

"Tylenol or-"

"Tylenol."

Dean sighed. He disagreed with Sam's choice, but knew he would be pushing his luck if he pressed his brother. Sam was at least willing to take a couple Tylenol. It would have to do for now. He got two tablets out of the bottle, then hesitated. Offering the other pills, the ones for the anxiety, might be a bad idea. Sam seemed calm enough right now. Maybe he should just leave it alone. He was willing to take the painkillers. That was something. So Dean left well enough alone and handed Sam the pills.

Sam took them without a word, handing the glass back when he was finished. By the time Dean had set it down on the dresser, Sam was already lying down again. Dean helped pull the covers back up.

"Thanks," Sam said softly, looking up at him.

"Yeah." Dean smiled. "Need anything else?"

Shaking his head, Sam closed his eyes.

"Get some more sleep, ok?"

Sam's eyes slid open and he asked, "You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Well, you know what I mean. Feel like crap, but, other than that, I'm good."

"Sorry. 'Bout everything." Sam's whisper was almost inaudible.

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes before answering. "You don't have to be sorry."

A heavy sigh was the only response he got from his brother. Dean was about to get up and leave when he heard Sam's soft voice saying his name.

"Yeah?"

"Tell me...something you remember from this year." Sam shot him a quick glance before closing his eyes again.

Dean started wondering if he should have made Sam take the other pills too. The anxiety in his eyes had been obvious even if it had been only a brief glance. Dean considered the question carefully. One wrong move right now might spell disaster. If Sam's memories of the past year were as spotty and confused as he'd implied, and Dean had no reason _not_ to believe his brother when he'd said he didn't remember anything from the past year, then anything he said could potentially cause an issue. But it was just as apparent to him that Sam needed him to say _something,_ so Dean thought back, trying to find a memory that might be safe.

"We met two ancient gods." He smiled at the thought. It hadn't even occurred to him until just now that they'd met and _killed_ two different ancient gods. Sam didn't say anything so Dean went on. "Osiris and Kronos. I went back in time to kill Kronos. Wound up killing him right here in this timeline. Rode him back from 1944 in fact. You and Jody did the spell to bring me back. We communicated long distance to make it all happen."

"I don't remember that."

"I wrote your name on the baseboard in this crappy house we holed up in," Dean said, suddenly, desperately hoping something would spark Sam's memory because this was beginning to scare him as much as it was scaring Sam. "I stuck a letter in there and you found it."

Sam didn't say anything.

Dean stared at the opposite wall and tried to think of something else that might spark Sam's memory. "We cleaned up a mess in the most psychic town in America. Bunch of phoney psychics gettin' killed off by a guy who wasn't even a _phoney_ psychic."

"What else?"

"Took out a couple Vetalas." Dean waited. Nothing. "Cursed objects? Pair of ballet slippers."

"There were witches," Sam whispered, almost as a question. "They...were married."

Dean almost grinned. It wasn't much. But it _was_ a start. "Yeah. They were in the middle of a marital spat. Marriage is difficult. And apparently even more difficult when you're both witches."

"What else?"

Hearing the desperation in Sam's voice, Dean began talking about everything he remembered from the past year. He kept talking even when he felt Sam shaking. Kept his eyes on the opposite wall while he spoke, trying to ignore his brother's silent tears. He didn't know if he were helping or not, but he kept going. Because Sam seemed to need him to talk. So he did.

By the time Sam had fallen still, fallen asleep, Dean had exhausted just about every topic he deemed safe to discuss and his voice was nearly gone. Looking down at his brother, Dean sighed and pulled the covers up over his shoulders.

He couldn't remember the last time Sam had cried himself to sleep.

Probably right after Jessica had died. He'd kept it quiet, tried to keep it hidden of course, but Dean had known. Rubbing his eyes, Dean pushed himself to his feet. He left the door open and stood in the hallway for a moment. Considering if he should go downstairs and talk to Arla, Dean realized he didn't feel up to dealing with the stairs again right now.

So he turned around and headed for his own bed.

* * *

Sam woke up hurting and sick.

The room was lit only by the small lamp on the nightstand. He was curled on his side, muscles tight even though he'd just awakened. There had been no nightmares. Only heavy, endless darkness. He'd slept.

He'd _slept._

Shifting enough to bring the clock into view, Sam tried to relax his muscles. It was just after seven in the evening. Closing his eyes, he shivered under the blankets and tried to sort out what he was supposed to do now. He remembered where he was and he remembered Dean talking to him earlier, telling him things that had happened in the last year. Things he still didn't remember clearly. But at least some of it had begun to sound familiar. He supposed he should put that in the win column.

It was difficult to put anything in the win column right now, though.

Sam took a shaky breath and made a conscious effort to uncurl his hands from the tight fists he hadn't realized he'd formed. His hands shook. Actually, _everything_ shook. He closed one hand around the pillow while the other grasped the edge of the mattress. It didn't do much to help him feel any steadier. Simply lying there was leaving him reeling like he was on a merry-go-round. How it was possible to feel so dizzy when you weren't doing anything, he wasn't sure.

Forcing his eyes open, Sam watched several minutes tick by on the clock display. The house sounded silent and the chair sitting in front of the bed was empty. Someone had been sitting there. _Dean?_ Maybe. Where was he now, though?  
After he'd watched thirteen minutes tick by on the clock, Sam pushed himself upright and got his feet on the ground. The head rush took another few minutes to recover from and by the time he had, Sam wasn't sure why he'd thought it was so important to sit up in the first place. The silence went on long enough that it became difficult to tolerate and he reached to turn the radio on, but hesitated.

The silence wasn't the only thing he couldn't tolerate.

Sam used the nightstand to push himself to his feet and the change in altitude left him breathless and unsteady, but he didn't fall over. He wanted to sit back down immediately, but the pressing need to know where Dean was took priority.

Crossing the room, Sam swayed and caught himself against the doorframe. Staying there to catch his breath, he took a quick peek around the corner. The lights were on downstairs and he could hear the television. Sam swallowed hard and debated the merits of going downstairs and talking to his brother.

Then he heard a sneeze and a loud curse from the other bedroom. Sam kept his hand against the wall as he headed in that direction. The bedroom door was open and the light from the hall was clear enough to illuminate the room and his brother's form.

Dean was propped up against a pile of pillows, a box of tissues sitting on his chest as he yanked one after another out and wiped his nose. The cursing didn't let up despite several more sneezes and a vicious bout of coughing. Sam leaned against the doorframe, trying to figure out what he was supposed to say.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, finally ceasing the sneezing, cursing, coughing cycle.

Blinking, Sam stared at him.

Dean coughed into his sleeve and asked, "Are you sleepwalking?"

"No."

"Then stop staring at me. It's creepy."

Sam swallowed hard, gripping the door frame tighter. He looked away from his brother and wished he had a place to sit down. The room seemed overly warm all of a sudden.

"Sam? You should sit down."

"I'm fine." Sam forced the words out, looking up, but not meeting Dean's gaze this time. "What-"

His words trailed off and he had to close his eyes. After a few seconds, he felt less like he was on the verge of passing out. Opening his eyes, Sam looked over at his brother. Dean had pushed the box of tissues aside and was in the process of pulling the blankets down.

"Don't." Sam held up a shaky hand.

"Don't what?" Dean asked, ceasing movement.

"You...don't need to get up. Are...how are you feeling?"

"Just peachy." Dean rolled his eyes, then coughed a few times. Clearing his throat, he added, "Got a wicked cold and a hole in my stomach."

"You're never gonna let that go, are you?" Sam intended to smile, but knew he hadn't managed to pull it off.

Dean studied him for a long time, then shook his head and asked, "How are you doing? You slept a lot longer than I expected you to."

Sam frowned. He looked at the clock. Suddenly the numbers didn't make as much sense. He asked, "Is it...the same day?"

"Yeah. It's the same day." Dean was frowning now. "Sam, maybe you should sit down."

Sitting down sounded like a great plan, but he wasn't sure he could move from the doorway if he tried. Dean was at his side in a heartbeat.

Staring at him in surprise, Sam asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Come here." Dean tugged at his arm and Sam allowed himself to be led to the edge of the bed. "You should get some more sleep."

"Didn't I sleep all day?"

"Basically." Dean sneezed and rubbed his chest. "You hungry?"

"No."

"Come on. Let's go downstairs and find some food." Dean ignored him. "I'm hungry. It'll do you good to get a little exercise."

"You made me sit down." Sam felt like he was five years old but Dean was confusing him.

"Yeah." Dean looked a little thrown off track. Maybe his thinking was as slow as Sam's was.

Sam sighed and said, "I don't want to to downstairs."

"Well, you're gonna eat. So you either pick what you want or you get what I get you."

"Dean-" He'd already reached the point where he wished he'd just rolled over and pulled the covers over his head and gone back to sleep.

"Good talk." Dean nodded as if Sam had given him some sort of answer. "Stay put."

He turned and walked away and Sam tried to figure out what had happened. He'd come into the room to check on his brother; assure himself that Dean was ok. And now Dean was gone and Sam was sitting here alone. Again. And his mind was swimming.

Sam knew he was supposed to wait for Dean to come back. And sitting still probably was the best thing for him to do since he wasn't feeling steady. But the room was too quiet and too dark and he really didn't want to be sitting in the dark any longer. So he dragged himself up again and slowly, _very slowly,_ walked back to his room. He almost expected Dean to catch him before he made it because he was walking so slowly.

Then again, Dean was walking rather slowly these days too.

Reaching the second bedroom, Sam paused in the doorway. Decision-making right now was definitely not his strong suit. He gave momentary thought to taking a shower, but dismissed it immediately. The way the room was spinning even while he was standing still made him think a shower might be a bad plan. Squinting into the room, Sam turned on the overhead light so he could see better, hoping it would help speed up his thinking.

It didn't.

It just made his head hurt worse.

He sighed and walked into the room. Dean had gone to do something, but Sam couldn't remember what. The blank spots really bothered him. Just when he started to think he was getting better, he remembered something _else_ he forgot.

It felt like the time Meg had taken him for a spin and he'd lost an entire week of his life. Those memories had never returned. Flashes, sure, but it was still a week he'd never gotten back. Now he'd lost almost two _years_ of his life.

Sam's shoulder hit something solid and he slammed a hand out against the edge of the desk in time to keep from smashing his head into it. He blinked, trying to clear his vision and realized he was on his knees, staring at the desk. Tightening his grip on the edge, Sam rested his head next to his hand and squeezed his eyes closed.

His heart was pounding in his ears and he groaned as he pressed his head even harder against the desk. Panic was swelling up through his chest and he felt the burn of acid in his throat. Swallowing it back took most of his willpower. The rest of his willpower and concentration was spent trying to find a way to cope with the fact he still couldn't remember what Dean had gone to do.

"Dammit," Sam cursed, shifting his head to the side so one throbbing temple was pressed against the solid wood.

It didn't help much, but it helped enough to refocus his thoughts. He ran through everything he remembered. Realizing he hadn't forgotten everything made him feel a little better. Not much, but a little. Sighing, he opened his eyes. He didn't move, but let his gaze drift to the pile of gear next to the desk.

Not releasing his grip on the desk, Sam dragged the bag closer. Fumbling with it, he opened it, uncertain as to what he was even looking for. And then his fingers brushed the cold metal of his gun.

Sam froze.

He frowned, pulling the gun out and staring at it. It felt familiar yet strange in his hand. Holding himself up with his grip on the desk, Sam settled back a bit, resting his other hand against his leg. The gun cradled in his hand reminded him that there was a fight out there. A fight he'd sidelined them from.

 _Want to point that gun at someone useful? Try your face._

Sam shivered, closing his fingers around the cool metal of his gun. _When is he going to leave me alone?_ When would he stop hearing his voice? It didn't seem fair that he had to keep listening to the devil's voice. _It's supposed to be over!_

 _It will_ never _be over, Sam._

"Sammy?"

He didn't move, but looked at Dean because he heard the fear, the near panic in his brother's voice.

"Sammy, what...what're you doing?" Dean asked like he was afraid of the answer.

He was crouched down in front of him and Sam hadn't even heard him come into the room. Yet another blank space. Another lost moment he couldn't get back.

"What are you doing?"

 _I don't know what I'm doing._ Sam stared at Dean. His mouth was dry when he said, "I-"

"Sam?" Dean's fingers dug into his shoulder. "How 'bout you give me the gun?"

 _He was wrong. About everything. You hear me, Sammy?_

Sam looked down at the gun and tightened his grip on it. He frowned and asked, "Dean?"

 _He was wrong. About everything. You hear me, Sammy?_

"Yeah?" Dean asked, one hand still on Sam's shoulder while the other hand closed over Sam's fingers on the gun.

Sam looked briefly at their hands. At the gun.

 _...point that gun at someone useful…_

He shook his head. Dean's hand was cold and the way he was squeezing left his knuckles bone white. Sam thought his hand should be hurting judging from how hard Dean was squeezing his fingers. But all he felt was the gun. And all he heard were two conflicting voices in his head, going back and forth and back and forth. It was time to decide which one of them was right.

 _Try your face._

 _He was wrong. About everything. You hear me, Sammy?_

"He was wrong," Sam whispered, weariness sweeping over him.

It pressed on him until he slumped down and finally lost his grip on the desk. Dean's hand on his shoulder steadied him and eased him until he was leaning against the drawers. Sam looked at his brother and repeated, "He was wrong."

Dean's red-rimmed eyes widened slightly, and he still looked freaked out. But he sounded calm when he said, "Yeah. He was."

Sam was too tired to nod. He swallowed and said, "Can...you take it?"

The gun was pulled from his fingers. Sam watched as Dean settled it back in the bag. _He was wrong._ Sam smiled briefly. Because Dean had been right. The devil had been wrong. About everything. He felt something sharp in his chest, but this time it wasn't fear.

It was relief.

"You're," Dean broke off coughing, then continued, "spacing out. You listening to me?"

Sam was, but somehow he couldn't take his eyes off the gun.

"Sam."

Cold fingers touched his chin, forcing his head to turn. He blinked at his brother.

Dean shook his head and said, "You need to lay down."

"Where did you go?" Sam asked, letting his head thump back against the desk. "I...you...you went somewhere but I couldn't remember."

"I went for food." Dean answered, lowering one hand but keeping the other on Sam's shoulder. "I told you to stay put."

"I needed to-" Sam broke off because he still didn't know what he'd needed to do.

"What were you doing with your gun, Sam?"

The fear was thick in Dean's voice and Sam felt bad that _he_ was the cause of that fear. He frowned, looking over at the bag of gear, trying to catch sight of the gun; hoping it would spark his memory. Nothing. He tilted his head back until he was facing his brother again.

"I don't know."

Dean's breathing wasn't right and his face went a shade paler. His fingers were digging into Sam's shoulder so hard it was beginning to hurt. Dean asked, "You don't know?"

"I...I don't," Sam struggled to get the right words out, "remember."  
It didn't look like that statement was making Dean feel any better. "You don't remember what you were doing with the gun?"

Sam closed his eyes. The conversation was exhausting him; the effort of thinking alone making his head pound. He was so- "tired."

"I know. I know you are."

Forcing his eyes open, Sam squinted at his brother. Dean looked as tired as he felt. He also still looked freaked out. Suddenly, Sam realized what Dean must have thought. Dean had walked into the room and found him with a gun in his hand.

Sam whispered, "It's ok. Ok. I remember he was wrong."

"Sam-" Dean's wrecked voice was even softer than his whisper.

"I wasn't," Sam said, hoping Dean understood what he meant. He shook his head against the desk. "I wasn't. I promise."

Dean breathed out a heavy breath that dissolved into a coughing fit. Each cough was like a punch in the head and Sam gritted his teeth against the pain. When Dean finally stopped, and wiped a hand across his mouth, Sam tried to tell himself that the brightness he saw in his brother's eyes was from the pain his coughing fit had just caused him.

* * *

Dean was terrified. Not scared. Not freaked out. He was terrified.

Again.

On any given day, walking into a room and seeing a gun in Sam's hand wouldn't be something he would consider out of the ordinary. Either Sam was cleaning it, loading it, or about to point it at a monster.

But today wasn't an ordinary day. And today, walking in and seeing the gun in Sam's hand had nearly given him a heart attack on the spot.

He'd been relieved when Sam had walked into his room earlier. Concerned about how out of it his brother looked and concerned with the way he wavered, but relieved. Sam had been confused, a little muddled, but that was understandable considering he'd slept almost the entire day thanks to complete exhaustion and some heavy medications.

Confusion Dean could handle. Exhaustion he could handle. He'd prioritized and gone to get the food Sam needed but seemed unwilling to pursue. And then he'd walked back upstairs, feeling relaxed and a little better only to walk into a room and find his brother on his knees with a gun in his hand.

Now the gun was in the bag and Sam had promised him he hadn't intended to do anything with it. Promised him without so many words that he hadn't intended to hurt himself.

 _Kill himself._

Dean swallowed back the bile as he stared at Sam and wondered if he should believe him. Sam's eyes were closed and Dean wondered. If he'd taken another minute or two chatting with Tommy while Arla had made the turkey sandwich. If he'd been a few seconds slower struggling up the stairs with the plate and glass of water in his hands.

Dean wondered if he would have walked into the room and found his brother's eyes closed.

Permanently.

His stomach turned, but he didn't give in to the nausea. He needed to focus. Should he call for help? The crisis seemed to have passed and Sam had sounded sincere. Maybe it _hadn't_ been what it had looked like.

Maybe Sam had been looking for his toothbrush.

Either way, once he got Sam to eat something and get back into bed, Dean was taking the guns and any sharp objects he found and hiding them in his own room. And he was going to have to talk to Arla. Warn her. Ask if his worries seemed founded or if he were the one going crazy now. His thoughts spun and his gaze drifted to the top of the dresser where the pill bottles sat in a neat row.

Maybe he should take them, too.

Dean decided against it almost immediately. He turned back to his brother. Sam was watching him now and he might not have been able to recite the alphabet at the moment, but Dean knew without a doubt that Sam knew what he was thinking. If Dean took those pill bottles -or the guns or anything else- out of that room right now, he would be telling Sam that he didn't trust him. And if he did that, Dean knew that Sam would never trust _himself_ ever again.

He would break his already shattered brother.

They'd been picking up enough pieces lately. It was time to start gluing things back together. He'd told Sam on the beach that he trusted him. Now he needed to prove it.

"You're gonna be alright, you know that?" Dean asked, forcing a smile. He stopped squeezing the shit out of Sam's shoulder and patted it instead.

Sam didn't smile. He pressed his hands to his head and muttered, "I don't know, Dean."

Smile fading, Dean tried to come up with a response to that. Sam spoke again before he could.

"What if this is it?"

"What if what is it?" Dean frowned. He should've asked Arla for a cup of coffee. Sam needed more sleep, but obviously he needed more, too. Or else he needed caffeine. At the moment, he wasn't going to get either.

Lowering his hands, Sam stared at the floor and said, "What if this is how it's gonna be forever. What if more sleep doesn't fix anything and I just stay this way."

"What are you talking about? What way?"

"Useless."

Dean had been terrified. Now he was angry. He shook his head. "You are not useless. Why would you even-"

"How am I not useless?" Sam met his gaze full on and, even if he _sounded_ a little angry, Dean could see the fear in his eyes. "You were gone for two minutes and I forgot where you went. I came in here and...and I have no idea what I was doing."

"Sam-"

"How am I going to hunt like this? Huh? How? I'm...I'm losing time, Dean," Sam whispered, any anger lost in the despair. "I keep...losing time. Things happen and I don't even know how I got from one place to the next. I can't _think_ straight."

"Because you are running on empty, man." Dean shook his head, wishing he could get through to his brother. "You slept, yeah, but not enough to make up for how long you weren't sleeping. It screws with you. You're the one who told me that sleep deprivation is an enhanced interrogation technique."

Sam looked away.

"It's torture, Sam," Dean said sharply. "So stop acting like this was all you just being some kind of drama queen, ok? Because I'm sick of it. He had a hundred years to torture you and I'm sick of watching you take up where he left off. You aren't crazy and you didn't deserve any of this crap. So cut yourself some slack, ok?"

Dean waited, but Sam didn't respond. He could tell his brother wasn't cutting himself any slack yet. Much as he wanted to clear this all up right now, Dean realized this might be the best they were going to be able to do for the moment. So he settled himself with his back against the bed opposite Sam and reached for the plate and glass he'd set down on the floor when he'd walked into the room.

Sam took the plate when he held it out and even started eating without being prompted. Maybe it was a victory of some sort, but Dean wasn't feeling very victorious at the moment. He had to push himself to his feet after a few minutes and hunt for a box of tissues. After blowing his nose at least ten times, he drew in a breath.

From _both_ sides of his nose.

Dean grinned and pitched the tissues straight into the trash can. His moment of happiness faded when he looked back at Sam. Arla had only made half a sandwich and Sam had managed to eat the entire thing. But the exertion of being up for even as short a time as he had been obviously had taken its toll. The continued mental anguish probably hadn't helped anything, either, Dean thought, crouching back down.

He took the plate from Sam's hand and replaced it with the glass of water. Sam's unfocused eyes drifted toward him and Dean said, "You need to drink some of that."

When the glass was half empty and Sam seemed half asleep, Dean took the glass away and asked, "You ready to go back to bed?"

Sam just stared at him like they didn't speak the same language anymore. Knowing he needed to take charge, Dean put a hand against the desk and held out his other hand. "Come on, let's get you up."

It took a minute for Sam to cooperate with those seemingly simple directions. But at least he didn't fight it. Once he had Sam sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean crossed the room to turn off the overhead light again. The lamp on the nightstand was still on and he didn't even consider turning it off yet. He looked at the pill bottles, wondering if he could convince Sam to take anything.

Trying to decide if it were worth the possible battle it might result in, Dean checked on Sam's progress. He was lying down, half tangled in the bedding and curled up on his side clutching the pillow.

His eyes were closed, but his breathing was unsteady.

"Sam?" Dean asked softly. He waited a full minute. "Sam? Do you want me to stay?"

Sam shook his head very slightly and Dean tried not to sigh.

"Ok. Well, I'm not far if you need something, ok? I'm gonna go lay down, too. Think I'm finally kickin' this stupid cold."

His attempt at levity was received by utter silence.

Dean turned and slowly made his way out of the room. He would have felt better if Sam hadn't completely shut down on him. Again. And if he'd taken something for the headache. Dean wasn't sure if they were going to be getting any sleep tonight. They'd both slept most of the day and now Sam wasn't medicated at all.

 _This could be another very long night,_ he thought to himself.

After a pit stop in the bathroom, he shook out his own pills, then, leaving the door to his bedroom wide open, collapsed into the bed. Tugging the covers over himself, he settled back against his pile of pillows. The congestion was a little better, but he wasn't going to attempt to lay flat yet.

Dean didn't know how long he'd been lying there, but he'd just drifted into the twilight zone between sleepiness and true sleep when something drew him back from the edge. A sound? Movement? For a moment, he wasn't sure. Whatever it was hadn't been alarming, so he simply lay there and tried to focus.

He didn't open his eyes or move when he felt the other side of the bed dip. Partially he was too worn out to have a reaction, partially he was literally holding his breath and trying to avoid scaring his brother off. Dean had no doubts that Sam knew he was still awake. But he kept his mouth shut. This was no time for teasing or even empty words of comfort. He waited to see if Sam was going to break the silence.

The blankets moved and then Dean felt Sam curling up on his side, sliding close enough that his head was against Dean's left arm. For a moment, neither of them moved. It wasn't until he felt Sam shivering that Dean decided to adjust his position. He slid down an inch or two on the pillows and moved his left arm just enough to give his brother an opening.

An opening Sam took immediately.

He settled with his head pressed against Dean's left side. It didn't seem like a very comfortable position, but Dean wasn't arguing. A few seconds later, Sam's hand came to rest on his chest-right over his heart.

It was cheesy. Total chick flick moment. But laying there in the semi-darkness, Dean couldn't find it in himself to care. The memory of finding his brother on the floor with a gun in his hand was still too fresh. Everything Sam had said to him on the beach was still too fresh. Just thinking about it made his heart stutter with remembered fear and he fumbled with his right hand until his fingers were pressed against Sam's wrist. His pulse point.

Yeah, it might have been cheesiest thing in the world, Dean thought, but if they both needed a little reassurance that the other was right there, _alive_ , then so be it. After the year they'd had, he wasn't too proud to admit that the beat of his brother's pulse under his fingers didn't feel like a miracle.

Arm still around Sam's shoulders, Dean tugged the blankets up higher and shifted closer. It took a few minutes, but Sam's breathing evened out. When the tension finally eased out of his brother's shoulders and Dean knew Sam was truly asleep, he opened his eyes. The hall light gave him enough illumination to take a quick peek at his brother.

Relief flooded him. Sam looked comfortable even without a pillow under his head and Dean smiled.

Closing his eyes, he fell asleep counting Sam's heartbeats.

* * *

 **There you go! I hope you enjoyed! Just to let you know my tentative plan going into next week...**

 **I have a 6 chapter Christmas story that i will begin posting on the 19th if all goes well. The story is complete (imagine that!) and I will post one chapter a day. On December 23rd I have ANOTHER Christmas story that I will be posting. Heads up...this is a very sad Deathfic. And it is a real death fic. There will be no miraculous ending although I do intend for it to end in a not entirely depressing way... This horrible horrible story popped into my head one day basically completely written and I couldn't help myself from putting it all down on paper...crying big fat tears as I did so. I am so so sorry! :) Don't read it if you don't want to cry, ok? I'm such a sap! The other 6 chapter Christmas story is set in S4 and is not a devastating horrible sad story. It has emotion in it of course, but it is not a sad death fic or anything like that. :)**

 **I'll be posting chapter 31 of this story on December 30th or 31st. :) Thanks! Until next time...**


	31. Chapter 31

**Happy last day of 2016! I know for many people, the holidays were a very, very difficult time and my thoughts and prayers go out to all of you. I truly hope 2017 brings better things to each of you!**

 **I wanted to get this posted today, the 31st, as it is chapter 31. I'm weird that way (or OCD. Probably both). lol. Sorry for the wait on this one! Now that I have those two Christmas stories finished, I can get back to this one full time.**

 **Hope you enjoy this chapter. :)**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 31**_

"You're falling asleep, babe."

"I am not."

"Yes, you are. You aren't laughing and you always laugh at this movie."

Arla yawned and slapped Tommy's hand away when he went to tickle her nose. She snuggled closer to him and admitted, "Ok, I might be falling asleep."

Tommy laughed softly. "We should probably go to bed. Try to get some sleep while we have the chance."

Shifting, Arla glanced at her watch. It was almost ten pm. A good two hours since they'd heard or seen anything from the Winchesters. She hoped it was a good sign.

Things had gone more smoothly today than she had expected. Dean had slept late; Sam had slept even later. Dean had eaten a couple decent meals, taken his medications and been in a relatively good mood. He'd wandered downstairs around five looking for food and, while Tommy set the table with another plate and started serving dinner, Arla had snuck upstairs for a quick peek at Sam. He'd been sound asleep and she hadn't seen him since.

Arla knew they needed the space; needed to start getting back to their version of normal. At least that was what she had told herself a few dozen times during the day. The fact that they were resting and seemed to be taking care of themselves didn't make her any less concerned.

"Go up and check on them then come to bed, ok?" Tommy flipped the tv off and pulled her to her feet. "We need sleep, too."

"Ok." Arla knew he was right.

They'd both managed to take decent naps during the afternoon, but they were running behind on their own sleep. Heading upstairs, she had a feeling things were ok. The day had been calm and quiet. All she could hope now was that they both would sleep through the night. Reaching the landing, Arla found the hall light on and both bedroom doors open. Creeping down the hall, she peeked into the first bedroom.

The lamp was on and the bed disheveled and empty.

Frowning, Arla took a careful glance around the room, but it was unoccupied. Tiptoeing down the hall, she stole a quick glance into the bathroom. Also empty. Reaching the second bedroom, the hall light gave her enough illumination to set her worries to rest.

Arla stood in the doorway and smiled.

They were both sound asleep and Dean's congested snoring didn't seem to be disturbing either of them. The fact that Sam was hogging almost the entire blanket also didn't seem to be disturbing either of them. From the flush on Dean's face, she knew his fever was still high so maybe he was happy not to have the blanket right now anyway.

They both appeared comfortable even if Dean had his left arm sprawled out and resting across his brother's chest and Sam was lying flat on his back without a single pillow under his head and his left arm was hanging off the edge of the bed.

If Dean caught her, Arla knew he would probably die of embarrassment and that simple fact made her smile even wider. As she watched, he sneezed in his sleep and she held her breath. But he didn't wake up, at least not completely. He muttered something under his breath, shifting slightly. As he moved, he rubbed his hand across his face, then dropped his arm back over Sam's chest.

Arla went back to holding her breath but Sam didn't wake up. He shifted restlessly and elbowed Dean in the face as he tried to roll away from him. Dean flinched and wound up smacking Sam in the neck as he tried to get away from the offending elbow. Arla had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing as they engaged in a round of clumsy, sleepy arm wrestling. They shoved and smacked at each other until Sam rolled all the way to his left side, stealing the rest of the blankets from his brother. Dean snorted and flopped to the opposite side until they wound up back to back. They settled after that and she snuck back downstairs, leaving the hall light on.

Tommy had left the small light on in the kitchen and she didn't touch it either in case the boys needed something later. Heading into the bedroom, she found Tommy pulling his t-shirt off. He turned around as she closed the door.

Dropping the t-shirt on the floor, Tommy asked, "How were they?"

"Asleep." Arla smiled as she recounted the scene upstairs. She listened to Tommy laugh as she hunted around for her nightgown. It had been on the bed earlier. Frowning, she asked, "Have you seen-"

"Mmhmm." Tommy came up behind her, sliding his hands under her shirt, his mustache tickling her ear as he kissed her neck. "I've seen. But it's been awhile...so maybe you should show me again."

"Thomas Pender!" Arla giggled as he helped her out of her shirt. "I thought we were going to sleep."

"We are. But it's not a school night," he leaned down for a kiss, pulling her closer, "and we're all grown up. And it's been-"

"It hasn't been that long, dear." She allowed him to ease her onto the bed.

Tommy smiled and kissed the inside of her wrist as he settled next to her. He whined, "It's been days since that shower."

Arla giggled again as his hand rested against her stomach. She ran her fingers up his arm and whispered, "We have company, Thomas. I'm not sure we should-"

"They're asleep." He kissed her collarbone. "You just said so."

"They could wake up."

This time he was the one laughing. "It'll be like that time when my mother was staying with us and-"

"Stop! Stop right there!" Arla punched him in the shoulder and pushed him until she was leaning over him. He was still grinning like an ape as he ran his hands up her back. She slapped him on the cheek gently, then kissed the same spot. Straightening, she rested one hand on his chest and whispered, "I love you, you know that?"

"I do." Tommy's grin faded, but the emotion in his eyes didn't. He brushed her hair back from her eyes and said, "You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Arla."

She blinked back a few tears as they stared at each other. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her, too. Smiling sweetly, she said, "I'm so glad you fell out of that window."

He broke out laughing again and suddenly they were tangled up together like teenagers.

* * *

Dean woke up just after two in the morning. Uncertain what had awakened him, instinctively, he checked on his brother. Shifting and squinting in the pale yet too bright light from the hallway, Dean looked down at Sam and the blossoming worry faded.

Sam was sound asleep. He still was pressed up against Dean's left side, but now he wasn't curled up as if he were hiding from something terrifying. Now he was taking up more than his fair share of the bed and had completely stolen the blankets. Dean hated to take a chance on disturbing him, but he was awake and now he had to go to the bathroom. And maybe get a snack.

Definitely a snack.

His stomach was already growling at the mere thought of food. If he didn't get out of bed now he'd wind up waking his brother anyway from the awful noises his stomach was making. Moving cautiously, Dean pushed himself upright. The pressure in his head shifted and he reached for the tissues. After blowing his nose a few times and sneezing a few more times, he added looking for medications to his list.

Getting to his feet, Dean hesitated as he looked down at his brother. So far, his movement hadn't disturbed Sam's sleep, but Dean was more worried about what his _absence_ might do. Maybe he should just go to the bathroom and skip the snack. It was only a few more hours until the sun would be up anyway. He could wait for breakfast.

Decision made, Dean was about to walk out the door when Sam suddenly took a deep breath and flopped over onto his stomach. His face was mashed into one of Dean's pillows and he was literally taking up the entire bed now. Rolling his eyes, Dean waited for a minute, but Sam didn't wake up. Seeing him settled, apparently comfortably, Dean started thinking about muffins again.

* * *

Arla had just poured herself a cup of tea when she heard slow footsteps descending the staircase. Setting out another cup, she put a few cookies on a plate and headed for the kitchen table. Her heart fluttered even though she told herself not to be such a nervous nelly. It was terrible and she felt _awful_ for thinking it, but she really hoped it was Dean coming downstairs.

She knew it was an overreaction, but she couldn't help feeling like she might have screwed things up with Sam so much that there would be no regaining his trust. Since their talk on the front porch two days ago, she had barely seen him, let alone talked to him. Of course, given how much he'd been sleeping lately, there hadn't really been much opportunity for them to interact.

"Hey."

Arla looked up at the sound of Dean's raspy voice. He coughed a couple times as he crossed the room. There was a quizzical smile on his face as he reached the table.

"Midnight snack?" Dean asked, motioning to the table.

"Give or take a couple hours." Arla smiled. "I got hungry."

Dean nodded, pulling out a chair and reaching for a chocolate chip cookie. "Me too. I think this whole up all night with a cranky baby thing is messing with my sleep cycle."

Arla smiled at his comment even though she knew the humor belied his deep concern. She asked, "Is he-"

"Out cold," Dean said, mouth full. "Hogging up the entire bed. Did that when he was a kid, too. Starts out all cute and innocent curled up in this very tidy space-saving ball. And then, just when you relax, he shows his true colors and all of a sudden you're sleeping on the floor."

Laughing at his description, Arla wondered if Dean had any idea how much he had just revealed about their lives and his own nature by his statements. Somehow she doubted it. Judging by the blush creeping up his ears, he _had_ apparently caught his slip of tongue. He ducked his head and made himself very busy with breaking the cookie into smaller pieces. Arla knew he hadn't seen her when she'd peeked in on them earlier. And she wasn't going to embarrass him further by saying anything about it.

Passing him a napkin, Arla said, "I'm glad he's still sleeping."

Dean nodded, but there was something in his eyes that told her something was bothering him. Wanting to pursue the topic, but not push him far enough that he would shut down, Arla started by asking, "Would you like something to drink?"

"Yeah. Beer's probably not on the list, right?" There was a smirk on his face, but his tone and expression told her he was only partially joking.

It made her worry double again. Even after everything, he still _needed_ a drink. Choosing to not to lecture him on it right now, she forced a smile. "Beer isn't on the list. Tea? Water? Milk?"

Dean didn't look thrilled with any of those options. He took a moment to think, then sighed and asked, "Coffee?"

"Tea. Water. Or milk."

"Isn't tea basically colored water?"

Arla smiled. "Depends on who makes it."

"Milk is fine."

The way he said it told Arla milk was most definitely _not_ fine, but it was a concession so she was going to take what she could get. After pouring him a glass, she joined him at the table and wrapped her hands around her cup of tea. For a few minutes they were silent. Arla was more than a little surprised that Tommy hadn't come out looking for food by now. Then again, he'd had a good workout before falling asleep. If it hadn't been for her inability to stop worrying about the boys, she probably would still be sleeping soundly too.

"I found him with a gun in his hand."

Arla looked up in shock. Dean's voice was soft in the quiet of the house, but there was no concealing his worry. Before Arla could come up with a response, he went on.

"When I went upstairs with the sandwich last night." Dean stared at the table, napkin balled tightly in his hand. "He was sitting there with his gun."

"Did he say why?" Arla asked, wondering if it was time to broach the subject of pursuing professional help.

Dean shook his head, still staring at the table. "He didn't know why."

"What?"

"He said he didn't know why. That he couldn't even remember walking into the room." Dean looked up finally and held her gaze when he said, "He told me he didn't intend to do anything. I think I believe him."

The doubt in his voice was worrying. Arla shook her head. "Dean-"

"When we were outside the other night," Dean kept going as if he hadn't heard her, "he said he didn't trust himself. Said he wouldn't do anything to hurt himself, but-"

"But?"

"But he admitted he'd thought about it." Dean sighed and stared blankly at the far wall. "He thought about it when he was in the hospital. The pills."

"Which is why he's been hesitant to take any medication."

"Partially." Dean nodded. His inner turmoil was evident as he sat there, avoiding her gaze. After a minute, he said, "He's had some problems. In the past."

Arla's thoughts were drawn back to the day they'd left the hospital the first time. When she and Tommy had entered the room to find the boys mid-argument. She remembered what Sam had said before he'd noted their presence.

 _"Because I don't think what we need right now is for me to get addicted to anything_ else _!"_

Sensing there was more to the story, Arla asked softly, "Problems with addiction?"

Dean looked up at her sharply and the defensiveness in his eyes didn't shock her at all. He studied her for a few seconds and she wondered if he was going to shut her out. Instead, the fight went out of him and he nodded. He didn't look away as he said, "He's been clean for a couple years. It wasn't pills before and it wasn't his fault. None of it."

"Did you tell him that?"

"What?"

"Did you tell him it wasn't his fault?"

Dean said _yes_ , but Arla thought it sounded more like _no._

She took a sip of tea and wished she knew the whole story. Every time she learned a new piece to the puzzle, it left her with even more pieces that didn't fit. Now was not the time to try to sort out the entire situation, though. Right now, she needed to stay focused on the critical element.

"Dean, it's a very good sign that he talked to you about how he's been feeling." She smiled briefly, holding his gaze. He was desperate for encouragement. For hope.

"I thought it was good too, until I found him with that gun." Dean rubbed his eyes; his frustration evident. "I want to believe him. I'm trying to _trust_ him. I'm just not sure he even knows what he's doing."

Arla took a slow breath. She shared his concern. Wrapping her hands around her mug again, she said, "He may not. At least not completely."

"If that's supposed to make me feel better, it's not working."

"He's under extreme stress right now," Arla elaborated. "He isn't _able_ to think clearly."

"He was really confused when we were talking earlier. I thought this was supposed to be getting better." Dean's words sounded accusing, but he only looked discouraged. "You said he needed sleep. All he's been doing is sleeping."

"One day of catching up on his sleep isn't going to be enough to help him fully recover." Arla understood his frustration and wished the situation was simpler than it was. "Physically, he's still affected by the chronic lack of sleep, and the injuries from when he was hit by the car. Dean, he is recovering from a head injury on top of everything else. He doesn't have a lot of reserve strength left. Mentally, he's trying to deal with the torture he survived. To recover from the hallucinations. To deal with the memories and adapt to reality. It's a lot for him to process all at once."

He studied her for a long time before sighing. Slumping back against the chair, he asked, "Does he need more help?"

The fact he was asking that question told Arla exactly how concerned he was about his brother. She chose her words carefully and held his gaze as she said, "He may. Or he may just need some more time. I know it seems like it's been forever, but he really hasn't had that much time to adjust to everything he's gone through."

Dean nodded, but he looked overwhelmed and uncertain.

"The important thing is that he stays safe. Do you think he feels comfortable going to you if he has any thoughts of self-harm?"

"He said he would."

"Good. I know you said you were trying to trust him. Let's work on continuing to build that trust between you two and see what tomorrow brings."

"Ok." Dean rested his head in his hands for a few seconds. Straightening, he reached for another cookie but now it looked like he was eating it as a distraction rather than because he wanted it.

Arla watched him dunk the cookie in his milk and hoped he wouldn't put up a fight when she broached the next subject with him. "Sam isn't the only one I'm concerned about."

Dean didn't stop dunking his cookie, but she saw his shoulders tighten just a bit.

"I'm guessing you don't remember what the nurse said at the hospital." She doubted he'd even heard what the nurse had said. There hadn't been much of a chance for her to bring it up sooner, but Arla wished she had. Hoping for the best, she said, "They made a follow-up appointment for you with a doctor at a local clinic."

"What do I need a follow-up for?" Dean narrowed his eyes and took a bite of his mushy cookie.

"Because you have some serious health issues that need to be monitored." Arla met his challenging stare. "They'll be doing labs and checking how the medications are working."

"Meds are fine. The pain's better."

"Dean. It's not simply about pain. This isn't negotiable. I would have told you sooner, but things have been rather busy here lately. You need to keep that appointment."

It looked like he was going to argue with her, but maybe he was just too tired to bother. "When is it?'

"Today at eleven."

"Fine. But I'm only going if Sam's doing ok." Dean's tone was firm. There would be no arguing with him.

"Completely understandable." Arla smiled. "Now, I think it's time you took some medicine and went back to bed."

Dean rubbed his head yet again. "I'm not gonna argue about that doctor's order."

"Good."

She crossed the room and selected the pills from the collection on the kitchen counter. He took them with a sip of milk and pushed himself to his feet. Wavering only slightly, Dean kept a hand on the table for a second then shot her a grin.

"Good cookies."

"I'm glad you enjoyed them." Arla steadied him with a hand on his arm and added, "Now go get some more rest."

He said he would and headed for the stairs. Arla sat there for a long time after he left. She wished she could follow her own directive, but she was far too worried.

* * *

Sam woke up with the taste of blood on his tongue and the smell of sulphur nearly choking him. He fought with the constricting covers around him as it sank in that he wasn't _there_ anymore. It had been a nightmare. Relief flooding him, he stopped moving and focused on getting his breathing under control. As awareness of his surroundings returned, Sam tilted his head to see if he'd disturbed his brother.

The other side of the bed was empty.

The nightmare that had awakened him had nothing on the fear that came from being in a dark room alone. He'd barely managed to slow his breathing and now it felt like he couldn't get enough air. His heart was racing and his mind wasn't any better. Lifting his head by a mere inch left him dizzy so he flopped back down against the mattress. Thoughts spinning, he focused on the open door. The hall light was on and he knew where he was.

He just wasn't sure where Dean was.

There was probably a good reason. No need to worry. Sam worried anyway. He'd spent the previous day either sleeping or moving in a murky haze. He couldn't remember if he'd ever asked how Dean was doing. Maybe he was worse and that was why he wasn't in the room.

Groaning, he pushed himself upright to lean on his elbows. Intending to get up and look for his brother, Sam realized that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. He was only able to maintain the position for about twenty seconds before he couldn't handle it.

He sank back down until he was flat on the bed and closed his eyes; simply concentrating on his breathing. After a few minutes, some of the panic subsided. If anything was seriously wrong, he guessed someone would have told him. The most logical explanation was probably that Dean had gone to the bathroom. Or else he was looking for food.

Deciding those were the most likely reasons for Dean's absence, Sam relaxed to a degree. And then he started thinking about the fact he had climbed into his brother's bed like a kid afraid of the dark. Mortification began to overtake worry and his headache doubled.

Sam wished he'd never left his room earlier. But the simple fact was, he wouldn't have been able to fall asleep if he hadn't. He didn't remember much of the previous day, but he remembered enough.

The foggy memory of finding a gun in his hand without knowing how - or why - had left him unsettled and jittery.

Dean kept saying he trusted him, but Sam still wasn't sure he should.

The past year or so had felt like living through a never-ending hurricane. Nothing had been stable. Nothing had been dependable. He wasn't sure of the world around him or anything in his own head.

The only constant he had was Dean.

Still trying to sort through his jumbled thoughts, Sam realized he could hear footsteps coming upstairs. He hoped whoever was coming was his brother. And then he realized maybe he wasn't ready to face him after all. Sam considered feigning sleep just to _avoid_ him because Dean was either going to tease him or he was going to treat him like he was broken and Sam didn't want to deal with either option.

"Sam?" Dean's hushed voice broke the silence.

He was lying there, eyes closed, almost in the same position he'd been in earlier and, somehow, Dean still knew he was awake. It really didn't surprise him. Sam didn't move, but whispered back, "Yeah?"

"You alright?"

 _Alright is very relative at this moment,_ Sam thought. To be completely honest, no, he wasn't alright. The headache that had plagued him for days was escalating by the second. His entire body felt sore and weak and his brain felt like it had gone through a blender.

Twice.

To be completely honest, he felt like shit.

But since they seldom made a point of being completely honest in situations like this, he said, "I'm fine."

Dean didn't argue with him but Sam knew he didn't believe him. Keeping his voice low, Dean asked, "Did I wake you up?"

"No." _Hellfire and the way the devil snapped every bone in my body took care of that._ Sam shivered at the memory of the nightmare. Nothing new or unusual, but still so vivid it had left him breathless.

"You need anything?"

"No." _Yes, the strongest painkiller available would be nice._

"Sam." Dean sighed. "You don't look like you're fine. You should take something for the headache."

"No." _If I move I'm gonna die. Don't even think about making me try to swallow a pill right now._

"Stop saying no to everything." Dean sounded more tired than annoyed. "You're squeezing the hell out of those sheets. Don't tell me your head isn't hurting."

Sam sighed, finally opening his eyes enough that he could see his brother's blurry form. He made a conscious effort to relax his hands as he asked, "You ok?"

"Yeah. Just got hungry."

That sounded reasonable and helped ease some of his apprehension.

Closing his eyes, he listened to Dean shifting where he stood. Probably trying to decide what he should do. Probably trying to decide if he should go crash in Sam's room, or if he should stay here. Sam wanted to tell him to go to the other room and get some sleep. Wanted to tell him he was fine. That he didn't need him to stay.

Instead, Sam summoned all the strength he possessed and slid a couple inches to his left. Because he wasn't fine and he wasn't sure he could fall asleep again in a dark, empty, unfamiliar room. Pulling the blankets around himself with shaking hands, he waited. He didn't wait long. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and Sam could hear him pulling some tissues out of the box. A few snotty seconds later, he was easing himself back against the pillows.

Sam listened as Dean's breathing evened out in sleep after a few minutes. It took him a lot longer, but eventually even the headache wasn't enough to keep him from falling back to sleep, too.

* * *

Light was filtering in from around the curtains the next time Sam woke up. He woke up feeling safer than he had in a long time.

Unfortunately, he also woke up feeling even worse than he had earlier which didn't seem fair at all. His head was throbbing and every breath he took left him more lightheaded. Forcing his eyes open, Sam blinked a few times, trying to orient himself. He was laying on his stomach and his right arm was asleep under him. Realizing his head was pressed against Dean's arm, Sam guessed Dean's arm was probably asleep, too.

Shifting a fraction of an inch, Sam regretted it immediately when his vision went dark. The headache had officially passed the barely tolerable stage. Now it was a full blown migraine.

"Sammy?"

Dean's sleepy voice was way too loud and Sam wanted to ask him to please be a little more considerate, but there was no way he could open his mouth right now. Because he knew Dean wouldn't appreciate it if he threw up on his arm. Squeezing his eyes closed, Sam held still and hoped for the best.

The arm under his head moved and Sam thought his head was going to roll off the bed. Dean thoughtfully positioned a pillow to take the place of his arm, but it didn't help anything. The bed was moving too much and Sam fisted his free hand into the sheets. Thankfully, when Dean spoke again, his voice was almost soft enough not to crack Sam's head in half.

"What's going on?"

He didn't really expect an answer, did he? Sam really hoped he didn't because that whole throwing up situation was still a very real threat.

"Sam? You don't look so good."

Sam _felt_ like he didn't look so good. He didn't open his eyes, but whispered, "Gonna be sick."

"Ok, ok, hold on." Dean was moving around and making a little too much noise, but Sam couldn't fault him for his haste.

As it was, Dean got the trash can to the edge of the bed exactly one second before Sam's stomach gave up its control. Sam pushed himself to the edge with no small amount of difficulty and was relieved when Dean caught his shoulder, preventing him from falling off the bed. While he heaved and spit miserably into the trash can, Sam listened to Dean alternating between cursing and worrying.

Groaning, Sam dropped his head forward when it became too heavy to hold up. Dean caught him with a hand to his forehead and asked, "You done?"

He really hoped he was, but his stomach didn't share his desire. After another minute of coughing and spitting up not much of anything, he started to think it was quite possible that he could be dying.

"You're not dying."

Sam kept his eyes squeezed closed and ignored his brother. Dean eased Sam back until his head was resting flat on the bed again. Concentrating on his breathing, Sam lay still and slowly became aware of the fact Dean's hand was still resting against his forehead.

"Sam?"

It was too much effort to say anything.

"I'm going to get Arla," Dean said softly. His touch was gentle on the back of Sam's head as he added, "You gonna be ok for a minute?"

Hoping that answering was optional, Sam just lay still and waited for death. Dean sighed, then his comforting presence moved away. Every footstep across the room and down the stairs was like a drum beat in Sam's head. He pressed his hand to the side of his head and hoped Arla was bringing heavy-duty medications. It wasn't long before the drum beats returned and then Sam felt someone crouching down next to the bed again.

"Sammy?"

He forced his eyes open this time, relieved to see his brother's face. Sam's head was spinning and he wondered how long it was going to take before Dean started cracking jokes about _The Exorcist._ But Dean didn't crack any jokes.

"You gotta help us out here. What's going on. Is it the headache?"

"Yeah."

"What are we talking? Migraine? Vision kind of headache?"

"Demon exorcising headache." Sam hoped that was a good enough answer.

Based on Dean's curse, he guessed that Dean got the message. So he closed his eyes and just listened to Dean and Arla's conversation.

"Let me check his blood pressure and pulse first, then we'll talk about next steps." Arla's voice was soft as she asked, "Sam? I'm just going to touch your left arm and put the blood pressure cuff on, ok?"

He didn't like it, but gave her a thumbs up because opening his mouth again seemed like a bad plan.

Arla's hand was on his arm and Sam let her move it where she wanted as she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around it. When she finished, she said, "It's low."

 _Which might explain the dizziness_ , Sam thought, wondering what she would suggest to remedy the issue. He hoped she wasn't going to suggest him trying to drink anything because he was pretty confident anything he managed to get down was going to come right back up. She removed the blood pressure cuff and checked his pulse.

"A little warm," Arla said, her hand brushing over his forehead. "Low grade fever."

"What are you thinking?" Dean asked. His voice was still thoughtfully soft, but the tension running under the surface was becoming more obvious by the second.

"I think he should see a doctor," Arla said and Sam knew exactly what Dean's next words were going to be.

"You are a doctor," Dean countered.

"I am. But I don't practice in this state, Dean." Arla's voice was so quiet Sam almost couldn't catch everything she was saying. "I can't prescribe medications or order tests. There's a limit to what I can do to help him right now."

Sam was a little surprised when he heard Dean say, "You think he needs a doctor, then we'll get him to a doctor."

Arla said, "I'll see if I can make an appointment. If I can't, there is an Urgent Care not too far from here."

Sam tuned them out at that point. It was making his head worse to try to keep up with their discussion and he didn't even really care what they decided. Whatever they decided - as long as it would take the pain away - Sam was willing to give it a try. He didn't want to move and he definitely didn't want to go anywhere near a hospital or a doctor or anyone else.

But considering the way his brain was trying to smash its way out of his skull, Sam decided not to argue.

* * *

The day had started off bad and gone downhill from there.

After his talk with Arla in the wee small hours of the morning, Dean had actually felt a little bit better. He'd gone back upstairs and considered crashing in Sam's bed to get a little more sleep without needing to battle his brother for the covers. But first, he'd checked on Sam and found him awake (pretending not to be) and in pain (also pretending not to be). Sam hadn't wanted anything for the headache and hadn't seemed interested in chatting. Unsure what he should do or what Sam needed, he'd almost walked away.

Then his brother had silently inched over on the bed, and Dean understood what Sam needed. While, under other circumstances, the situation might have been great fodder for teasing his brother, it was the last thing in his mind. Because Sam would never have sought him out the way he had last night unless he'd been desperate. This was serious. So he'd simply settled back in and fallen back to sleep.

Waking up just after nine-thirty, he'd sensed Sam's increased discomfort. And that was when everything went from bad to worse. The fact that Sam hadn't protested the idea of going to a doctor told Dean everything he needed to know.

And now they were at the Urgent Care center and he was regretting his stubbornness and his _brother's_ stubbornness. It was some sort of cruel irony that they were at the Urgent Care center he'd been politely directed to several times when they'd been staying at the cabin. Maybe things wouldn't be quite this awful if he'd listened to the manager and brought Sam here in the first place.

The visit had gone swiftly and, considering how much pain his brother was in, Dean had appreciated the haste. During the doctor's examination, Sam had allowed Dean or Arla to answer most of the questions. Except for what his pain was on a scale of one to ten.

Sam had said ten and Dean's heart had almost stopped.

Even the prospect of teasing Sam mercilessly for the shot of industrial-strength painkiller he got in his butt didn't relax a single degree of Dean's tension. Because his doped up brother was now flat on a gurney with IV fluids running for the dehydration and low blood sugar he was suffering from on top of the migraine. He still looked like he was barely holding onto consciousness and Dean had no idea how they'd ended up here. Things were supposed to be getting better. But Sam laying there white as the sheets and getting IV fluids again because he was too sick to even attempt to take a drink wasn't better.

It felt like they'd taken ten steps backwards.

The room was quiet and still and it made him feel sick to his stomach to be sitting in a clinic knowing they had no other choice _but_ to be sitting in a clinic.

"Dean?" Arla's voice was very soft.

"Hm?" He looked away from his brother and met her gaze.

"It's time for you to get going." She smiled a little. "Tommy's waiting at the car."

Frowning, he glanced at his watch. _Well, crap._ His appointment was in less than twenty minutes. It hadn't felt like that long, but almost forty-five minutes had passed since they'd first arrived. He opened his mouth to tell Arla he wasn't going to bother with it, but she shook her head before he could speak.

"I know you don't want to, and I realize leaving your brother here isn't easy, but you need to see the doctor, Dean," Arla whispered, squeezing his arm.

"I-"

"You need to be honest with the doctor," Arla cut him off. "No one and nothing is going to be able to help you if you don't fess up to what you're feeling."

Dean knew he was fighting a losing battle. He looked at Sam uncertainly.

"Faster you go, faster you get back." Arla leaned closer, nudging him with her shoulder. She said softly, "I won't leave him."

"I know." And he meant it. He looked at Sam and realized he'd never had the chance to tell his brother about his appointment. Pushing himself to his feet, Dean slowly crossed the room and tapped Sam's shoulder. "Sam."

Sam's eyes slid open and he mostly made eye contact.

"You doin' alright?"

"Yeah."

"I got an appointment for a check-up," Dean said, trying to gauge his brother's mindset. "It shouldn't take too long, but I have to go now."

"Are you feeling-"

"I'm feeling fine. Tired. Hungry. But I'm fine."

Sam studied him closely. He looked alert and worried. "It's just a check-up?"

"Yeah. No big deal." Dean could tell Sam wasn't totally convinced yet. "It won't take long."

He still looked dubious, but nodded.

"Arla's gonna hang out here till I get back, ok?"

"Ok."

"Just try to get a little sleep. I'll be back soon."

Dean waited till Sam's eyes slid closed again, then forced himself to walk out of the room without a backward glance. He really hoped he wasn't making a mistake by leaving.

* * *

Arla knew how much it killed Dean to leave. In all honesty, she was astounded he made it out the door. She'd thought it would take her at least three times as long to convince him to go. Considering how the morning had gone, Arla was counting her blessings they'd both agreed to seek medical attention in the first place.

All she could do now was hope Dean would be honest with the doctor. He might be far more worried about his brother, but Arla was every bit as worried about Dean as she was about Sam. She wanted to go with Dean, but knew he wouldn't appreciate it. Besides, the only reason he'd even walked out the door was because she'd promised not to leave Sam.

Returning her attention to the current situation, Arla looked up as the nurse walked in and began another brief assessment. Relief washed over her as she listened. Blood pressure was up a bit and Sam said the pain was better. Still far too pale, he did look a little better, she thought. He'd been silent on the drive to the clinic and almost entirely silent since they'd arrived.

When the nurse walked out, Arla's heart fluttered a little because Sam was looking at her now. His eyes were bloodshot and underscored in circles so dark it was as if he'd been punched. He was obviously uncomfortable and wary and she knew it was her fault for pushing him beyond his comfort zone the other day.

Arla tried for a reassuring smile as she asked, "Sam, how are you doing?"

He shrugged, closing his eyes again. After a few silent minutes, he said, "You don't need to stay here."

"Maybe not," Arla said softly, "but I'd like to stay anyway. If that's ok with you."

Sam looked at her again and Arla could see the uncertainty. The misery. The fear. The hopelessness. She could all too easily understand Dean's concerns about his brother's state of mind. It might have been simply the confusion at work the previous evening when Dean had found him with the gun in his hand. Or it might have been something else.

After a moment, Sam pressed a hand to his eyes and said, "I don't want you to be here."

Arla's heart sank. But she wasn't going to argue with him. The last thing he needed right now was to feel more trapped than he already did. She knew he had his phone; Dean had been sure to grab their phones before leaving the house. So she knew he could call his brother if he needed anything.

He glanced at her as she reached for her purse. Arla smiled to let him know she wasn't upset and said, "I'll go sit out front, Sam. Try to rest, ok?"

"Wait." He held her gaze and looked even more troubled than he had a moment ago. "I'm sorry. Please. Stay?"

Arla pulled her chair closer. "I'll stay. Whatever you need."

His eyes were bright as he whispered,"I don't know what I need."

"How about a friend?" Arla asked softly. She saw the doubt in his eyes and decided it was time to address what had been bothering her for days. "Sam, I know right now you're really struggling, and I'm afraid I may have made things more difficult for you the other day when we spoke. I'm so, _so_ sorry if I pushed too hard and hurt you. But, please trust me when I say I'm your friend."

"I trust you." Sam studied her for a few seconds, then said, "You don't have to be sorry. For anything."

Arla smiled a little, knowing he was sincere.

"You were trying to help." Sam pressed a hand to his eyes for a few seconds, then stared up at the ceiling. "And I appreciated it. I appreciate everything you and Tommy have done for us. I do. Everyone's trying to help."

Arla remained silent, sensing he wasn't finished.

Eyes still focused on the ceiling, he continued quietly, his tone lifeless, defeated, "I know you all think I need help. I know you all want me to talk. I know Dean's scared to let me out of his sight. That he thinks I'm suicidal."

"Are you?" Arla asked, not sure she should, but knowing she needed to nevertheless.

She'd been gentle, but she could see how much her question had affected him. His breathing changed; grew more uneven. He spared her a quick glance before pressing a hand to his eyes again.

"Sam?" She prompted.

"No." He lowered his hand and met her worried gaze. "I'm not."

Arla's heart was pounding and her own eyes were filled with tears. The relief washed over her and she smiled, "I'm so happy to hear that."

"You believe me?"

"Yes," she answered immediately. This time, _he_ was the one who looked relieved. Arla couldn't help but wonder. "Do you believe it?"

The troubled expression was back in his eyes. He sighed. "Sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

Sam looked up at the ceiling and said, "He was in my head. For a long time. I'm still...having trouble sorting it all out. The things he said. The things he wanted me to do."

Arla nodded, remembering what Dean had told her during their early morning chat. She couldn't help but ask, "You're not still having hallucinations, are you?"

"No. Cas...he took all of that." Sam's voice grew softer as he added, "Now it's just memories."

"Those can be very difficult. They're like scars." Arla could only imagine how deep these scars ran. "They take a long time to heal and an even longer time to fade."

Sam nodded, then closed his eyes. Arla remained silent. She felt a little better after having this brief conversation with him. Not much, but a little.

* * *

 **Hope you all have a Happy New Year! My first resolution is to write some happy stories. :D**

 **A challenge has been issued...so sylvia37-you better get your coat because hell is about to freeze over! ;) I have two humorous stories in the works...one in which no Winchester is harmed whatsoever. That's right, everyone. :D But that will be coming sometime later. I'm focusing on wrapping this one up before I go off on any further tangents like my recent Christmas stories. Sigh. I do _try_ to stay on task. ;)**

 **My other resolutions include things like not eating so much chocolate, laying off the Dr. Pepper, and oh...maybe working out a little here and there lol. Yeah...i might keep the resolution to write a happy story...not so sure I'm gonna succeed at the other ones!**

 **Anyway! hope you enjoyed the chapter! Chapter 32 will be coming up...next year. lol ;) good thing it's not that far away, right?**


	32. Chapter 32

**Hello! Hope you are all doing well. I've been so swamped with life and family and travelling every weekend for the past month and a half and whatnot that I haven't had the chance to reply to reviews in ages. I promise I shall, because I so value your feedback and love hearing from each and every one of you! This weekend...i'm rolling up the welcome mat, unplugging the doorbell, turning off the phone and hiding all weekend so I can write! :D**

 **Hope you enjoy this chapter! :)**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 32**_

As Tommy parked the car, he could feel the tension radiating off the young man next to him. The trip between the two clinics had taken less than ten minutes and passed in complete silence. He glanced to the right and saw Dean staring at the building.

"Dean?"

"What?" Dean asked, not taking his eyes off the clinic.

"Are you ok?"

"No."

Tommy was surprised by the response. Shifting, he frowned and asked, "Dean?"

"I'm fine." Dean turned and gave him a quick smile. He waved a hand. "This just isn't my thing."

"Clinics?"

"Doctors," Dean said, opening the door.

"They've never been my thing, either." Tommy grinned as he got out of the car, too. "With one notable exception."

"Obviously." Dean's smile widened and he almost looked like he felt better. As they crossed the parking lot, he added, "We don't do doctors. We take care of ourselves."

Tommy saw his smile fade. His shoulders were slumped as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him. _As if he's failed somehow because he needs help._ Knowing how utterly discouraged he was, Tommy gently gripped his shoulder until Dean glanced at him.

"I know all of this has been difficult for both of you and that you're not used to relying on others." Tommy was relieved when Dean nodded slowly and maintained eye contact. Tommy added, "But you need to talk to a doctor. Your brother is getting the help he needs right now. For both of your sakes, you need to do the same thing."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, but it was only a halfhearted protest at this point.

Tommy pulled open the clinic doors and indicated a row of chairs. "Go sit down. I'll get you checked in."

Dean hesitated, then sighed and headed for a chair. Tommy knew he wanted to argue; wanted to do it all on his own. But it was obvious the walk from the car had already worn him out. The morning hadn't been easy on either of the boys. Even if Dean didn't want to acknowledge it, Tommy remembered that it had only been a couple days since he'd been in the ER. He wasn't anywhere near full health yet. Stepping up to the desk, Tommy made the arrangements.

Arla had been almost certain the boys didn't have insurance. She hadn't asked and nothing had been offered, so they were going with that assumption. Tommy was just hoping they were both going to be too distracted to ever bother asking how the medical bills were being covered. Of all the things they needed to worry about, Tommy didn't want to add that to the list.

He and Arla had plenty of savings and that was all there was to it.

Once he was finished settling the financial aspect of the office visit, he crossed the room to join Dean. He had his phone in his hand and glanced up when Tommy joined him. His expression was halfway between annoyed and worried.

"Everything ok?" Tommy asked, sitting down in the chair to his left.

"I guess." Dean shrugged, looking back down at his phone. "He hasn't texted me back."

"Did you try Arla?"

"No." Dean shoved his phone into a pocket and gave Tommy a slightly embarrassed smile. "He's probably asleep."

Tommy had remained in the waiting room at the Urgent Care center and didn't know how things had gone. If Dean had agreed to leave his brother, Tommy had to guess that meant Sam was doing better. Since Dean had given him an opening, he decided to take it. "How was he doing?"

"By the time I left, he looked a little better." Dean pulled his phone out again as if hoping for a message. "They shot him up with a stronger painkiller and were giving him fluids. Said he was dehydrated again. Hasn't been drinking - or eating - enough in the past few days. That's why the headache got so bad."

None of that surprised Tommy. How either of them were still managing to keep going was a mystery. He knew Arla had been fretting - more often than she wanted to admit - about their poor nutrition. From past experience, he knew that Dean especially had a great appetite. The day Dean started eating like he had back in Arizona, Tommy knew he would be on the mend.

"I'm glad he's doing a little better." Tommy smiled, but could tell Dean wasn't particularly reassured.

And he couldn't exactly blame him.

Arla had been in bed next to him when Tommy had awakened in the morning, but he'd known immediately that something must have happened in the middle of the night. She'd been lying there awake and, once she'd told him about her conversation with Dean, Tommy could understand why. Almost from day one, he'd been as concerned about both boys' mental condition as she was about their physical condition.

They both had a long road to recovery, but all Dean was worrying about was his brother. Tommy knew he had good reason. There hadn't been much opportunity to address any of it since the morning had taken a turn for the worse and they'd all ended up at the clinic anyway. Tommy was relieved they'd both agreed to come. All he could hope now was that they'd _both_ be willing to accept the help they needed.

Because Sam wasn't the only one who needed help.

Dean rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, the phone still in his hand. Not wanting to pressure him, Tommy picked up a magazine and found the crossword puzzle in the back.

He was three words from finishing it by the time a nurse called Dean's name. Glancing at his watch, Tommy realized it had been almost twenty minutes. Dean hadn't shifted position at all and his eyes were still closed as if he had been taking a nap. Tommy caught the nurse's attention and held up one finger as he turned to Dean. The nurse smiled and nodded.

"Dean?" Tommy tapped him on the shoulder.

"Huh?" Dean mumbled, tilting his head. His eyes were bleary and Tommy realized he _had_ been asleep.

"The nurse just called your name."

Rubbing his forehead, Dean sighed and straightened. He glanced at his phone yet again, then slipped it in his pocket. Scanning the room, he caught sight of the nurse and sighed again. Tommy remained silent, sensing the battle the kid was fighting. The last thing Dean wanted to do was stand up and cross the room to follow the nurse. But he did.

Tommy watched him go. Dean hadn't offered a spoken or unspoken invitation so he didn't even attempt to follow. Settling back in the seat, he pulled his own phone out and checked for messages. Nothing. He tapped a finger on the phone and debated texting Arla for an update.

And then he changed his mind.

Checking that Dean had gone back with the nurse, he got to his feet. It was time to follow up on his little project. Pushing the clinic door open, Tommy took a short walk away from the front entrance and made a quick phone call.

"Hey, Steve, it's Tommy. How are ya?"

" _Great. You ready to make the leap?"_

"I am. You said it was a '78, right?"

" _Yeah. '78. Been waitin' to hear from ya. Can't believe you want to buy this piece of crap."_ Steve was laughing. " _It's as ugly as they come."_

Tommy couldn't help but grin. "Ugly is exactly what I'm lookin' for."

Steve laughed again. " _I still don't know why she married you. You're as nuts as I am. Arly's too good for you."_

"Yes. So you and every other member of her family has told me. Repeatedly," Tommy said, still grinning. "But she hasn't left me yet."

" _You are the luckiest man on the face of the earth."_

"I know it." Tommy hurried back to the clinic door to hold it open for a young guy who was wrangling a stroller and a six year old. The guy shot him a grateful smile as he entered the clinic. Tommy held the door for the young woman who followed him, an infant in her arms, then returned his attention to the phone call.

"You said it needed work, but it's driveable, right?"

" _It's driveable. You sounded like you were looking for something available sooner rather than later so there's still some smaller work I need-"_

"Don't worry about it," Tommy interrupted. "Like I said before, I'm looking for a project."

" _Yeah. You said that. What you didn't say was why. Vacay too boring for you, Tommy?"_

Tommy almost laughed. Vacation had proven to be anything _but_ boring. He said, "It's not boring. We're both looking for some time to lay back and enjoy our hobbies."

" _Well you two better stop with the hanky-panky. That can't be your only hobby. You've been here over a week and Arly has yet to bring me any cupcakes."_

"She was thinking about making some just the other night." Tommy smiled at the memory of finding Arla studying a cookbook at two in the morning. And then he sobered because she hadn't been looking up cupcake recipes for her cousin's benefit.

" _Good. I want the ones with sprinkles."_

"How old are you?" Tommy teased.

Steve was the youngest of Arla's cousins and the only one who still lived in the area. He maintained the extended family's vacation home, but, politely, never came over without an invite when someone was using the cabin. He and Steve shared a closer connection than Tommy did with any of Arla's other family members because Steve had been on the local police force until he'd retired a few years ago. Since then, he'd been helping with a friend's car repair business.

Steve laughed and said, " _Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. Sprinkles."_

"I'll let her know."

" _You do that. When you want to pick this ugly beast up?"_

Tommy hesitated only for a moment. "Would day after tomorrow work for you?"

" _I'm here all week. My work's never done. Come whenever you want. And then you can explain to me your sudden interest in car repairs."_

He'd always been handy with cars. Done plenty of car repairs when he was younger, but Tommy knew Steve had a point. Working on cars wasn't his hobby. Choosing his words carefully, Tommy said, "I've got a friend who's been having a rough time. He needs something to work on while he gets back on his feet."

Steve was quiet for a few seconds, then asked, " _Friend from the force?"_

 _Not quite, but close enough,_ Tommy thought. "Yeah."

" _It'll be ready whenever you want to come by. I'm takin' thirty percent off the price and nuthin' due up front, ok? I know you're good for it. Still wish I could talk you into something a little less-"_

"Crappy?"

" _Yeah. I got nicer things. This thing-"_

"Steve?"

" _Yeah?"_

"I'll take the Pacer."

" _Then it's yours."_

"Thanks, man. I appreciate it."

" _My pleasure. Bring your friend by if he's up to it. Arly too if she wants."_

"I'll make sure to bring you some cupcakes, but I'm not sure Arla will be free for a few days yet." Tommy hesitated from saying more.

The fewer people who knew about the Winchesters, the better. He didn't even know if Dean would be interested in going with him to Steve's place. Even if he wasn't interested, Tommy thought it would be wiser not to mention that his friend had a brother. It had been awhile since the boys had been on the evening news, but Tommy didn't want to take any chances on drawing extra attention their way.

" _No problem. Would love to have you two over some time before you head back to Arizona."_

"We'll plan on it. Thanks again, Steve. I'll see you later."

" _Sounds good, Tommy."_

Tommy hung up the phone and headed back into the clinic. Just as he sat down, his phone beeped. Glancing down, he saw it was a text from Arla.

 _Did Dean make it?_

 _He went in without a fight,_ Tommy texted back. _How's Sam?_

It took a few seconds, then she replied, _Feeling a little better. Text me when you're on your way back_.

Replying that he would, Tommy settled in to wait.

* * *

Sam felt like a complete idiot.

He stared at the cup of juice and the graham crackers on the napkin in front of him. It wasn't even a very full cup and there were only two crackers but it might as well have been an all-you-can-eat buffet for as overwhelmed as he felt staring at them. The nurse had walked out after presenting them to him and he wished he could remember what it had felt like to just _eat_ something without needing to give it so much thought.

Lately, it took him a couple minutes to even be able to convince himself what he was staring at was _food._

The crackers looked innocent enough. So had the sandwiches Arla had been making the past couple days. Even so, he'd needed to take a couple minutes every time he'd been faced with a sandwich simply to reassure himself there were no maggots under the peanut butter. That the bread wasn't ash or full of oozy worms. And right now, he needed a minute to convince himself the crackers were safe to eat. He hadn't been able to look at the juice again. Not after the first glance.

Because it looked like a cup full of warm, bubbly, red blood.

Stomach twisting, Sam unconsciously pressed his thumb against his left palm.

"Sam?"

He looked up so quickly the room spun and he had to release his grip and grab the edge of the bedside tray. His heart was thudding painfully as he met Arla's concerned gaze. He'd forgotten she was still sitting in the room with him.

 _How could I forget that?_

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" His voice sounded wrong, but at least he'd answered her.

Arla looked like she was worried and he was fed up with everyone looking at him like they were worried. The anger running just below the surface nearly broke through, but he maintained control. Because Arla was too nice to deserve it. And he knew she already felt nervous around him. He took a slow breath, concentrating on calming down, and waited for her to ask what he knew she was going to ask.

What everyone kept asking.

 _Are you alright?_

He was sick of answering that question and sick of lying every time he _did_ answer it. He was tired of pretending he was fine when he was anything _but_ fine.

 _Are you alright?_

But if he answered The Question honestly he'd be in even more trouble than he was already in. Because someone would lock him up and throw away the key. Dean probably wouldn't stick around if he got thrown into the nut house for a second time. And maybe that would be best anyway. Dean deserved a break. Deserved not to have to take care of him all the time.

 _Are you alright?_

No, he wasn't alright. He'd given up thinking he ever would be again. There was no _alright_ after this. There was no going back. No returning to normal. There was no fine or ok and there never would be again. He was broken in ways that medications and a good night's sleep didn't fix. _Couldn't_ fix.

 _Are you alright?_

All he would ever be able to do is lie.

 _Yes. I'm alright._

Sam blinked and realized he'd missed what Arla had said. "What?"

"I asked if you preferred apple juice." Arla smiled, not asking The Question.

She was standing in front of him and setting a cup down on the table. Sam stared at her and wondered when she'd stood up because the last he remembered she'd been sitting in the chair against the wall. _I need a few dozen cups of coffee,_ Sam decided. Wondering if anyone would bring him any coffee if he asked, he looked at the cup in front of him. He couldn't figure out where it had come from and where the cup of blood - _grape juice! -_ \- had gone.

"Try the apple juice," Arla coached softly as she sat back down.

Sam watched her for a few seconds until he was certain she was staying where she was and then he looked back at the table. The two crackers were still there, still not full of bugs or poison or entrails, and the cup of juice wasn't blood and it smelled like apples.

He didn't trust it.

Staring at the cup, he wracked his fuzzy brain to remember what was going on around him and where Dean was. It felt like he'd just awakened from a long, not refreshing, sleep. The cup didn't seem to hold any answers, but he was a little nervous about looking around the room. He spared one quick peek at Arla and she was still sitting there. Still herself. Still not asking The Question. She didn't say anything and his gaze briefly drifted around the room and then back to the cup.

Urgent Care. He remembered that. Remembered the worst headache of his entire life. And that was saying something considering some of the headaches he'd had over the years. He remembered thinking he was dying because your head shouldn't hurt that much unless you were dying. The line between point A (dying/not dying) and point B (Urgent Care) was distorted and confusing. The important thing was he remembered where he was and why. The IV fluids had finished and, between that and whatever had been in the injection, he was finally feeling better.

 _Are you alright?_

No, not really. But better. The headache was a manageable six or seven although he'd reported it as a five to the nurse because he wanted to leave; not be stuck here any longer. Sam didn't feel dizzy at the moment, but knew he was supposed to be drinking and eating something before they could leave. He looked at the cup again, found it to be exactly the same as before, and finally took a drink.

Apple juice.

Setting it down and spilling a few drops because his hand was shaking badly, Sam hoped it counted for something. He picked up one of the crackers and forced himself to eat half of it even though it tasted like cardboard. Cardboard was much better than other things the devil had made things taste like.

He almost choked on the cracker.

Swallowing it down with another forced sip of juice, Sam told himself over and over _he's gone!_ The room was silent and there were no flames licking up the walls. The cracker was still a cracker and the juice still smelled like apples. Fighting the urge to squeeze his left hand to be sure, Sam looked up at Arla.

She was still sitting there, still silent, still worried.

And he couldn't take it anymore.

Pushing himself to his feet, he said, "I need to get out."

Standing up made his head hurt worse and now he _was_ dizzy, but now that he was on his feet, he wasn't doing anything except getting out of here. There was pressure on his chest and he almost mentioned it, but decided he needed to get outside more than he needed to be assessed yet again.

"Let's go." Arla was at his side in a matter of seconds, but this time he'd seen her move so it wasn't exactly a surprise when he felt her hand on his arm. "Let's go outside."

She guided him through the clinic and Sam was glad she was with him and keeping a hand on his arm or he would have walked into a wall. As it was, the ordeal of getting outside nearly was his undoing. Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped paying attention to his surroundings.

"Breathe, Sam."

He barely registered Arla's voice before he found himself sitting on a bench. Gentle, but firm hands, pressed his head between his knees. Sucking in a breath as instructed, Sam breathed in what had to be fresh air because it didn't have that artificial smell of air conditioning.

 _Outside. You're outside. Stop freaking out._

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting on the bench, but there finally came a point when he was able to catch his breath and his heart stopped feeling like it was going to beat right out of his chest. Sam stared down at the grass growing between the cracks in the sidewalk and wished he could stop shaking.

"Just breathe," Arla said, and he realized she was sitting next to him.

She had one arm around his shoulders and he was currently squeezing the living daylights out of her other hand. Sam didn't remember taking her hand.

"Sam?"

It took a minute, but he found his voice. "Yeah?"

She squeezed his hand and leaned closer. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"I'm-" What kind of question was that? Sam shook his head, still staring at their hands. He thought about letting go, but didn't. The contact made him uncomfortable, yet it grounded him somehow. It felt like he was- "Safe."

"Yes. You are."

Sam nodded and straightened. He leaned against the back of the bench and looked around. They were just a few yards past the entrance of the clinic and there weren't many people around. A few cars were passing on the street, but otherwise it was quiet. The pressure in his chest was better, but he wasn't sure why he'd almost blacked out. Again.

He didn't want to ask, but did anyway. "What's happening to me?"

"You've been through something extremely traumatic, Sam." Arla squeezed his hand again and said softly, "You're having panic attacks."

Sam pulled his hand away from hers. "I'm not-"

"Yes. You are." Arla's voice was gentle, but left no room for argument.

He wanted to argue, but knew she was right. Feeling lightheaded again, Sam rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "I should be over it by now. This is so stupid."

"There is no timeline for this sort of thing," Arla said, leaning closer. "And it's anything but stupid. It's serious and it's not your fault."

 _It_ is _my fault. You don't understand. It is all my fault._

Arla's gentle hand was on his shoulder as she said, "I don't care what you're telling yourself right now, or what you're remembering _him_ telling you. And I don't care what happened before. I want you to know that what's happening to you right now is _not your fault."_

Sam shook his head, pressing his fingers harder against his throbbing temples.

"Have you heard of PTSD?"

Of course he had. But that wasn't what this was. He shook his head again and said, "It isn't-"

"Yes, Sam. It is."

"No. It's not...that doesn't happen to-" his voice trailed off. PTSD was something normal people went through. Not people like him. Not people who had set the devil free and then been _possessed_ by him.

Arla was too close and he wanted to move.

Before he could, she said, "It can happen to anyone."

Sam sat upright again, fully intending to walk away.

"Please," Arla whispered, catching his arm before he could get to his feet. "Sam, please let us help you."

He met her gaze this time and saw the depth of her concern. It wasn't merely professional concern or concern borne out of duty. She genuinely cared. About him.

Sam didn't know what else he could do.

So he nodded and didn't pull his hand away when she took it again. All he said was " _Ok"_ but he may as well have said " _Please help me because I don't know how to handle any of this."_

It wasn't over, this war raging inside him, but Sam thought maybe he'd just won a battle of some sort.

* * *

"Your blood pressure is on the high side," the doctor said, skimming the nurse's notes. "I understand you have been under a significant amount of stress recently."

"Hence the ulcer." Dean's temper was short and his answers were even shorter.

At least he'd kept control of his temper and hadn't punched anyone. _Yet_. The doctor was nice enough, but Dean wasn't in the mood to be anything more than cordial. He'd kept the appointment because he trusted Arla, not because he wanted to be here.

The doctor - Dean thought he'd said his name was Jonathan, but he hadn't been paying attention - smiled and looked up. "Yes. Hence the ulcer. I reviewed the notes from your recent hospitalization. There wasn't a lot of detail on what had lead up to it, but it sounds like you and your brother have both been ill."

Dean nodded, but kept his mouth shut. If the doctor thought he was going to elaborate, he was dead wrong.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Isn't that what I'm here for? You're gonna tell me?"

"No, I want you to tell me how you're feeling." Jonathan turned in his chair and said, "I can look at your vital signs, I can order and interpret your labs, but none of that is going to tell me how you're feeling."

"Fine."

"Ok. How's the pain been lately?"

"Great." Dean didn't try to sound sincere. "Doesn't bother me at all."

It was obvious Jonathan wasn't buying it, but he simply nodded. "How about when you're eating?"

Dean shrugged. "It's better. Doesn't feel like someone shoving a hot poker through my gut."

"That's good. How is your appetite?"

"Fine."

"What does fine mean to you?"

"What?"

"What do you mean when you say your appetite is 'fine'? Fine means different things to different people."

Dean glared at the doctor. "It means fine. That's all. I'm eating. It's not all coming back up. It's fine."

Jonathan studied him for a long moment, then asked, "Have you been drinking?"

"Yeah." Dean crossed his arms over his chest so he wouldn't punch the doctor. "Lots of water. Good stuff."

"That's not really what I meant."

Dean had never thought it was. But he wasn't interested in the topic the doctor obviously wanted to discuss.

"I meant alcohol."

"No." Dean's jaw tightened.

"You haven't been drinking. Which is good," Jonathan said, not looking away. "Have you wanted to drink?"

 _Yes, hell yes!_

Dean met the doctor's gaze without flinching and said, "Nope."

Jonathan didn't seem fazed. He said, "I know your aunt made this appointment for you when you were in the Emergency Room a couple days ago. I get the feeling you aren't interested in being here today, Dean."

"Caught that didja?" Dean grinned even though he felt sick and knew he was being an ass.

"I did." Jonathan smiled briefly, then sobered. "The fact that you're here tells me that you must accept - to some degree - that you have a problem."

"No. I'm here because I was told I was supposed to be here and that you were going to draw labs. That's why I'm here. So you want blood, you can have it." Dean figured his blood pressure was even higher now than it had been when the nurse had checked it not fifteen minutes ago. He kept his arms across his chest to hold himself in check because he was losing what control he had. "If you're done, then I'm leaving."

"I do intend to order labs. But I'd like to ask you four questions first."

Dean glared at him and waited.

Jonathan said, "You can leave before or after the questions. That's up to you. But it's only four questions and I think answering them will help you more than any lab or test or medication I could order. All I ask is that you answer them honestly. I won't even ask you to answer them aloud."

Dean snorted. "What?"

"If you want to share your answers or discuss anything in more detail, that's why I'm here." Jonathan settled back with one arm leaning on the desk. "If you don't, you are free to go. You've made it very clear you aren't invested in being here. There isn't anything I'm going to be able to do for you if you aren't willing to accept it."

Silence. Dean maintained his glare even though he was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute.

"Either way," Jonathan continued, "I hope you will answer the questions honestly to yourself and maybe talk to your family about how you're feeling if you don't feel comfortable talking to me."

Already his stomach was churning and he knew he wasn't going to like these four questions, but Dean swallowed and shrugged like he couldn't have cared less either way.

Jonathan nodded and said, "Again, feel free to answer these for yourself. The answers are more important for you to hear than they are for me to hear."

Dean waited, trying to maintain his irritable expression, but realizing he was losing his edge.

"Question one. Have you ever felt like you need to cut down on your drinking?"

 _Well, crap._ Already Dean didn't like where this was going. At. All. He stared the doctor down and remained silent. Jonathan didn't ask another question. As if he realized Dean hadn't answered the first question, even in his own mind, the doctor waited. Shifting uncomfortably, Dean tried to blank his mind, but the answer popped into his mind anyway.

 _Yes._

Jonathan asked, "Have people annoyed you by criticizing your drinking?"

Dean snorted before he could catch himself. Jonathan smiled slightly and Dean knew he'd just answered that question aloud for the doctor.

"Have you ever felt guilty about drinking?"

 _Shit!_ Dean wished he'd never agreed to come to this appointment. He should have stood up to Arla and said a resounding no. This wasn't worth his time. He needed to be with Sam. Sam was the one who was having a health crisis. Sam was the one who was sick. Not him. Well, sure, he was technically sick. But the ulcer was healing and he was getting over the cold.

"Dean?"

"What?" Dean asked, voice hoarse.

"Did you answer the question?"

Staring at the doctor for another long moment, Dean reflected on the question and knew the answer was yes. Yes, he felt guilty about it. Every single day. He'd felt guilty about it long before Bobby had pointed it out to him. Before Sam had started to look uncomfortable every time Dean reached for a bottle. Before he started to look _scared_ every time Dean reached for a bottle.

Yes. He felt guilty.

Dean swallowed hard again; the room was getting overly warm. He uncrossed his arms and rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. Jonathan's expression was unreadable, but he seemed to realize when Dean had answered the question in his own mind. Dean waited with growing apprehension for the last question.

"Have you ever felt like you needed a drink first thing in the morning to steady your nerves or deal with a hangover?

 _Damn it!_ This was so not cool. So not good. He should never have come! Because the answer to that question, like all the others, was _yes._ And, looking at the doctor, Dean had a feeling answering _yes_ four times was not a good thing.

Jonathan maintained the silence for a few more seconds, then asked, "Were you able to answer the questions for yourself?"

Dean nodded, crossing his arms again and considered walking out the door right now.

"Has anyone asked you those questions before?"

"No."

"They're from a questionnaire called CAGE," Jonathan explained. He allowed a space of silence until it became uncomfortable, then continued, "It's a screening test. I'm sure you can guess what it screens for."

Yes, he could, but Dean wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of answering.

"It is just a screening tool, mind you. Not a detailed assessment. But it provides a guide for practitioners." Jonathan sounded casual. As if they were chatting about the weather or cars or what restaurant served the best burgers. But there was nothing casual about what he was saying. "We consider how many questions are answered with a _yes_ when we score the tool."

Dean wondered if the doctor could hear his heartbeat. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. _Maybe it's just the fever._ But it wasn't a fever. The nurse had taken his temperature and it had been fine. It wasn't a fever.

It was reality.

"Scores of two or more affirmative answers are indicative of alcoholism, Dean."

And there it was. What he'd been afraid of, yet expecting, to hear. What he'd been lying to himself and everyone else about for so long. Tommy knew. Arla probably did, too. Bobby must have known.

 _You're an alcoholic._

Dean stared at the doctor and realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.

* * *

Arla hadn't expected Sam's quiet _ok._ Hoped for it, yes. Expected it? Not even a little.

He'd fallen silent immediately after and withdrawn his hand from hers. But, this time, she felt like it hadn't been out of fear or embarrassment. He'd simply been ready. They'd been sitting without speaking for the past few minutes. The last thing she wanted to do was rush him. She was relieved beyond words that he'd opened up to her at all.

They sat in silence as her thoughts drifted back to earlier in the morning. She had lain awake most of the night worrying about what Dean had told her and trying to figure out how to help Sam. By the time Tommy had awakened, she'd still been at a loss. She'd told him about her conversation with Dean and their concerns.

" _Sam needs more help, Tommy," Arla said, staring up at the ceiling. "He's not getting better; not really. If it were anyone else, I'd be getting him support. Counselling. Getting him to help. But I don't know what to do for him given the unique circumstances of their lives."_

" _I know. It does make things more complicated," Tommy said. "It doesn't make it impossible, though. We may not be able to get him professional help, but I think - between the three of us - we can help. He's been searching for support, for answers, all along. His walls have been crumbling for days now. It may be he's to the place where he can finally accept our help."_

 _Arla looked at him and sighed. "I hope so. I just don't know how to connect with Sam. He seems more comfortable with you."_

" _Maybe so." Tommy nodded, shifting in bed until he was lying on his side facing her. "But that doesn't mean you can't help him. I may be wrong, but I don't think I am. He needs you more than either of you realize. This isn't simply about finding a coping mechanism or simply getting past what he went through. If it was that simple, we could give him a book and that would be it. But it's not that simple and he needs a little mothering even if he doesn't know it."_

 _Arla rolled onto her side and stared at him. "I'm not so sure. He isn't exactly receptive."_

" _No, he's not. My honest opinion? I think he probably has no idea how to accept it because the only concept of mother that he knows is his brother's version. And I'm not at all discounting what Dean has done over the years. He told me he as good as raised Sam. That's a heavy responsibility for a kid to handle. I just think that's partially why Dean finds it easier to connect with you. He does remember, even minimally, what it was like to have a mom."_

" _True." Arla knew he was right._

" _But I think you can reach Sam even if it's more difficult."_

" _How? He was already so guarded, but after the other day-"  
Tommy cut her off. "Don't be so quick to discount what happened that day. I still think you did more good than harm, even if it wasn't easy for him."_

" _I hope you're right."_

" _Me too. And remember, they're_ both _guarded. And with good reasons. You got past Dean's defenses by taking care of Sam. Now you just need to find a way to connect with Sam."_

" _How? I know practically nothing about him."_

" _So start there." Tommy smiled. "It doesn't have to be complicated. Just try talking to him."_

Arla returned her attention to the present. Sam had given her the opening she'd been waiting for. Now it was time to do what she could to reach him. She turned slightly and studied him for a moment. He looked tired and stunned. Like he still couldn't keep up with what was happening around him. Arla wished they'd taken two cars because she wanted to get him home sooner rather than later. But, for now, they weren't going anywhere.

Somehow, sitting on a park bench in a very public area didn't seem like the right setting for an in-depth conversation. He seemed to be doing better now, but Arla wanted to tread carefully to avoid anything that might destroy his tenuous control of the anxiety.

Sam seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because he spoke up softly and said, "I don't...think I can talk about it. Right now."

Arla smiled when he met her eyes briefly. There was fear in his expression, but, more importantly, there was trust. She said, "That's ok. How about we talk a little more whenever you feel up to it?"

He nodded and looked away.

"Sam?" She waited until he was looking at her again before she added, "I want you to know we're going to help you get through all of this. It doesn't all happen at once. But you are going to get better."

He didn't reply, but relaxed another degree against the bench.

Hoping for the best, Arla said, "I am curious about something, though."

"About what?" His voice was so soft she almost missed it as a car drove by.

"About you. I know Dean loves his car. I know he loves food as much as my husband does. I know you are the most important person in his life." She smiled at the hint of embarrassed surprise in his eyes as he glanced at her. "You're very quiet, Sam, and I feel like I don't know you as well as I know your brother. Would you tell me something about yourself?"

Sam looked away and didn't say anything for a long time. Arla kept her fingers crossed and tried to be patient. As glad as she was that he'd been able to talk to her even a little, she knew he was also sick and hurting. If he didn't want - or wasn't able - to answer, she would understand.

After a few minutes, he said, "I've always wanted a dog."

Arla felt a hint of hope. "Me too."

Tired eyes focused on her again as he asked, "Never had one?"

"My dad was in the military. We moved around a lot when I was growing up. You?"

"We moved all the time, too." Sam's smile was brief and tinged with regret and sadness. "Dad wouldn't have let me get one even if we had stayed in one place for more than a month or two at a time. And there's no way Dean would ever let a dog in the Impala. He'd probably kick the dog, and me, out on the side of the highway."

Arla smiled at the hint of humor in his voice. Feeling encouraged, she asked, "Favorite type of music?"

"I like a wider variety than Dean." This time Sam's smile lasted longer and was a bit brighter. "But I love all the same stuff he does even if I'm never gonna tell him that. You?"

"There isn't too much I don't enjoy. _Boston_ is my favorite band, though."

"Good choice. Dean would approve."

Arla was pleased with how well this was going. She could tell he was losing steam, though, and she didn't want to push him too far. But she wanted to make sure she asked one key question before the conversation ended. "Favorite method of stress relief?"

Sam studied her for a long moment and Arla was pretty sure he knew why she'd asked. He answered, "Running."

 _Well, nuts!_ Why did it have to be running? Arla smiled brightly even though she wished he'd said anything but running. She replied, "I was _just_ thinking about getting back into running! What do you think about going for a run with me in a few days when you're feeling better?"

Tommy was going to laugh so hard when she told him about this. Arla didn't care, though. Because she could see the wheels turning in Sam's head. He was thinking about it. More importantly, he was thinking about the _future_. About a not too distant future when he would feel better and would feel up to running. Arla knew he needed something to focus on instead of the past. If it meant she was going to have to do some running, she'd do it every day.

"Sure." Sam nodded. "Sounds good."

"Excellent." Arla patted his hand and he didn't flinch or pull away.

They settled back to wait for Tommy and Dean. She was so relieved with how things had gone with Sam that she wanted to break out in song. Then her thoughts turned to Dean and she wondered how his appointment was going.

She'd been torn earlier when Dean had left for his appointment. He needed someone with him. Someone to make sure he was honest, make sure he would listen to the doctor. And Sam had always seemed more comfortable with Tommy, so Arla had almost suggested swapping positions. But she'd seen the look in Dean's eyes and understood two things.

For one thing, _he_ needed her to stay with Sam regardless of what Sam might have preferred.

For another thing, she wasn't his mother and, although Dean tended to grudgingly agree to most things she suggested, she strongly doubted he would have allowed her presence at the appointment. Which probably meant he was going to skillfully talk his way around his problems instead of addressing them.

Her joyous mood diminished somewhat.

Dean would have scoffed had she said it aloud, but Arla was beginning to suspect perhaps the only brother making any progress with his issues was Sam.

* * *

 **Nobody really expected Dean's appointment to go well, did they? Sigh.**


	33. Chapter 33

**Hello! Hope you are all doing well. Life's been very busy lately, but things are finally settling down. I'm back to getting up at 0400 so I can write for a couple hours before work. I may be a night owl, but my muse clearly loves early mornings because I'm cranking out 2,000 words before I even get out of bed. :D I've been on such a roll that chapter 34 is finished and 35 is well on its way. :D**

 **Heads up on this chapter...it is a bit heavy. I know you probably don't believe me anymore when I say things will get better! But I promise they will! :) The boys have hit rock bottom and there's nowhere to go but up. There are bumps in the road ahead, yes, but they're on the upward swing now.**

 **I do want to give a warning that sensitive issues are implied in this chapter. Nothing explicit and nothing that hasn't been hinted at on the show itself. But I wanted to throw out a warning so you are aware before you begin reading.**

 **I never meant for this story to be as dark as it has become, but the more I dug into everything the boys were dealing with in season seven, the more I realized how serious their issues were and how difficult (in reality) it would be for them to pull themselves back together after the things they both experienced.**

 **Also, remember...these guys don't exactly have a track record of making the best choices. Sometimes they do stupid stuff even when they know better. You'll see what I mean... ;)**

* * *

 ** _Chapter 33_**

Staring at the clock on the wall as his blood was drawn, Dean tried to tell himself he hadn't been gone that long. Tried to tell himself that things were probably fine. He knew they were fine, actually, because Arla had texted him not even ten minutes ago.

Looking at the message again, he tried to distract himself from the fact someone had shoved a needle into his arm. He was getting very, very sick of people shoving needles into his arms.

 _We're sitting outside and he's doing well._

Dean frowned. Not that he didn't believe Arla, but the fact that they were outside told him that the term _well_ was as relative as _fine_ or _ok_. Not that it wasn't a nice day, but somehow he doubted Sam had wanted to sit outside in order to smell the flowers. It crossed his mind, not for the first time, that he probably should ask Sam about the whole outdoorsy obsession he'd recently developed. And then again, maybe he shouldn't. Because Dean had a feeling Sam's need to be outside had a lot to do with feeling trapped in enclosed spaces after the cage.

It was all purely conjecture, of course, since Sam was still mostly silent on the matter of hell.

"You're all set." The lab tech smiled as she smoothed a bandaid on his arm.

"Thanks," he muttered, pushing himself up faster than he should have.

 _Dumb idea, moron._

"Oh! Here, here, sit back down for a minute."

Dean sat down, not so much due to her kind concern and gentle urging, but because if he hadn't, he would have landed on the floor and he was _not_ in the mood for that kind of embarrassment today.

The tech's face floated in front of him. "Are you alright? If you can stay there, I'll call for the nurse-"

"No," Dean said firmly, holding up a hand to stall her movement. The dizziness hadn't gone away, but there was no way he was going to fall into the clutches of another nurse. Not when he was this close to the exit. "I'm fine now. Thanks. I'm fine."

He pushed himself up again and, this time, didn't fall over. The tech looked worried, but backed off when he brushed past her. No one stopped him when he walked down the hall toward the exit. Dean paused just before walking out into the lobby. Leaning against a convenient space of empty wall, he caught his breath and waited until the world stopped spinning around him.

Recovering without anyone noticing him, Dean glanced out into the lobby. He could see Tommy sitting at the far side of the room, flipping through a magazine. Hesitating where he stood, Dean thought about the flyers and paperwork in his pocket.

After the doctor's pointed statement about alcoholism, Dean had decided he'd done his due diligence. He'd asked Jonathan if his recommendations and the content of the visit were protected by doctor/patient confidentiality and had been assured they were. At that point he'd stood up and said a terse _thank you_ even though that really wasn't what he wanted to say. The doctor hadn't looked surprised at all, but there had been a hint of disappointment.

Dean didn't care.

He'd been halfway to the door before Jonathan had stopped him and handed him a neat pile of paperwork. Shoving them into his pocket without even looking at them, Dean had walked out the door. He didn't want to see what they were. Didn't want to acknowledge what the doctor and he both knew was true.

 _You're an alcoholic._

Now, standing in the hallway, the papers were burning a hole in his pocket. Taking a couple steps back so he wasn't visible from the lobby, Dean saw a convenient trash can to his left. He pulled the pile of paperwork out. Pitch the pile and be done with it all. Move on.

No one would know.

Dean looked down at the pile even though he told himself not to.

He saw words like _recovery, hope_ and _addiction._ Filing through the pamphlets, Dean found information on local resources and support groups. He snorted. Those were a waste. He wasn't staying in town and he definitely wasn't joining any support groups.

The pamphlet titled _Support for Family Members of Alcoholics_ was the final straw. As soon as he read that title, his hands tightened around the pile. Crumpling the entire pile into a messy ball, Dean threw it into the trash. He straightened and ignored the screaming voice in his head that was telling him he was making a crucial error.

He ignored it because he was fine.

Rough around the edges, sure. A little stressed lately? Absolutely. Drank a little too much? Maybe. He'd admit he probably did turn to the bottle a bit more often than he should, but the doctor and the people who wrote fancy words in stupid brochures didn't live his life. They didn't know what it was like to go to hell. To come back and never be right again.

They didn't know what it was like to watch the world come unglued at the seams and to be trapped in the middle of a war that someone else had decided you and your brother were supposed to have starring roles in. Dean was pretty sure the doctor and all the so-called experts hadn't watched their little brother save a world that didn't even know he existed. They'd never tried to figure out how to kill shapeshifting monsters from another world. And they probably hadn't tried to maintain their own sanity while watching the last person they had left rapidly losing his mind.

Dean was pretty sure if they had, they'd be drinking, too.

So if it was how he coped - how he kept his nerves settled - how he got through the day, it wasn't alcoholism. It was survival. He wasn't an alcoholic. He was a survivor. At least that's what Dean told himself.

He completely ignored the fact that, if it wasn't for Sam needing him, he didn't even know if he'd keep getting out of bed in the morning.

Taking a deep breath, Dean looked out front. Tommy was sitting there, engrossed in a magazine. All he had to do was walk out and they could be on their way to the other clinic. Dean hesitated. Tommy didn't know he was done with the appointment. A quick glance around showed him that he was alone. Sam was doing ok; whatever _ok_ meant these days.

And Dean had one opportunity.

They were in town. He'd watched his surroundings closely as they'd driven to the clinic. There was a mini-mart across the street. He could make it. Dash in, dash out. All he needed was something small. Just something to take the edge off. He knew his limits and, this time, he would be the one in control.

Decision made, he headed toward an exit at the opposite end of the hall. Ten minutes tops and he'd be back before anyone knew he was missing. Dean pushed the door open and felt a weird rush; almost as if he were on a hunt and outsmarting the monster they were after. It shouldn't have felt that way, but it did. Maybe it was because he knew it might be his only chance.

Because he was trapped. He didn't have a car. Not that he could have easily gone anywhere even if he _did_ have a car. The Penders were watching him like hawks; out of kindness and concern, but nevertheless, it was suffocating.

Dean hurried toward the mini-mart trying not to look like he was committing a crime.

Even though he was about to.

He didn't have enough cash on him for booze and there was no way he was risking using a credit card right now. His heart was pounding in his ears and he hated himself for planning to steal from a mini-mart while Tommy sat in a waiting room across the street. Once he was down the alcohol aisle, Dean stopped caring about that.

All he cared about was getting something strong and finding a private moment to drink it. Staring at his options, Dean's stomach seemed to flip-flop at the mere thought of drinking anything. Even if his stomach was protesting, every other fiber of his being was begging for the alcohol.

He grabbed a small-ish bottle even though he could easily have drowned himself in something much larger. But he didn't have a good place to conceal it so it had to be small enough to fit in his coat pocket. Once he made his selection, Dean took a forced casual walk through the aisles. Somewhere along the way, he slipped the bottle into his coat and hoped the security cameras didn't pick up anything.

He felt physically ill at the thought of potentially getting Tommy and Arla into trouble. They were technically harboring fugitives and were risking an awful lot to protect them as it was. Guilty as he felt, Dean couldn't back out of it now. He headed for the cash registers and bought a pack of gum with the cash he had left. The clerk was a high-schooler who was more interested in flirting with the other cashier than she was in paying any attention to him, Dean realized with relief.

Out the door and crossing the street on an adrenaline high, Dean felt like he had the very first time he'd ever stolen anything. The giddy rush left him breathless and almost forgetting what a stupid chance he'd just taken. He wanted to pull the bottle out and take a steadying sip, but there was no way he could. Tommy would smell it on him and he didn't dare take that chance.

It would have to wait until tonight. When he was alone.

Dean tried to calm his racing heart and catch his breath as he pushed the clinic door open. Thankful it was a good sized, busy clinic, with multiple entrances, Dean felt a little calmer knowing that most likely no one had even noticed his little excursion. No one paid him any attention whatsoever as he strolled into the waiting room.

Tommy was engrossed in his magazine, but glanced up as Dean got closer.

"Dean?" Tommy rose and met him halfway. "How're you doing?"

"I'm good. Let's go." Dean didn't stop walking.

Only once they were in the car did he finally relax. He slouched down and rested his head on the seat back. Everything from his head to his stomach hurt and the guilt of what he'd just done didn't help him feel any better. The bottle was burning a hole in his pocket.

Rubbing his stomach, Dean glanced at his phone again. No new messages.

"Arla called me a few minutes ago," Tommy said, pulling out of the driveway. "She said Sam's pretty wiped out, but he's been doing ok."

Dean nodded, feeling Tommy's gaze on him. The reality of everything they were doing for him and Sam hit him like a ton of bricks. Dean hadn't really given much thought to the fact they must have been dealing with the billing issues because he sure hadn't offered an insurance card. He wasn't even sure they _had_ one anymore. And if he hadn't thought about that particular issue, Dean was completely certain his brother hadn't thought of it either.

He slanted a quick glance in Tommy's direction and said, "You know...we can't-"

"You don't need to." Tommy cut him off, obviously knowing what Dean was about to say. "You can repay us by getting back on your feet and out there taking care of monsters, ok?"

He knew Tommy was serious so Dean didn't press the matter. There wasn't really anything else he could have done anyway.

"But I do have a little project I need some help with when you're feeling up to it."

"I don't know what I can do to help you," Dean said, surprised, "but I'll do whatever I can. You guys got a monster under the bed? Or one in the closet? House haunted?"

Tommy laughed. "Not that kind of problem, actually. But if I do find anything under the bed, I'll give you a shout."

Dean smiled. "Ok."

"How're you feeling now?"

"About as good as you probably think I do." Dean sighed. "I've had better days."

"I'm sure you have."

Nodding, Dean fell silent and his thoughts turned to his brother. Despite Arla's assurances, he spent the rest of the trip worrying. By the time they pulled up in front of the Urgent Care clinic, his anxiety level was probably rivaling Sam's. He'd laughed at the term separation anxiety when he'd been a kid, but right now he knew exactly what that term meant.

Since the last time Sam had been out of his sight he'd found him sitting alone with a gun in his hand, saying that he didn't know what he was doing, Dean thought his concern was well founded.

Tommy pulled into the driveway and Dean was ready to jump out of the car. He was looking everywhere, but didn't see Arla or his brother. The car turned slightly and Dean asked, "Where are you-"

"Right there," Tommy said, pointing.

Dean followed his gaze and caught sight of Arla standing a few yards away from the door. Tommy pulled the car into a parking spot nearer to where she stood and Dean asked, "Where is he?"

Tommy put the car in park and said, "He's sitting just beyond her."

And then Dean saw him. There was a park bench along the side of the clinic and Sam was sitting on the bench, his head resting in his hands. Arla turned just as Dean opened his door. She smiled and he could tell she was saying something to Sam.

Dean headed toward her, but she was walking faster than he was and met him before he'd even made it halfway. She grasped his arm, forcing him to pause, and said softly, "He's exhausted, but alright. We can talk more later. Be gentle."

 _He's alright_ had been a good way to start. But saying they could talk more later and instructing him to _be gentle_ , left him more worried than he had been to start with. Dean let her pass as he headed toward his brother. Sam straightened as he drew nearer.

"Hey." Sam smiled a little and it didn't look he was forcing or faking it.

"How you doin'?" Dean narrowed his eyes, sizing him up.

"Better."

"Headache?"

Sam grimaced, but said, "Not as bad as it was this morning."

"Good. You look a little less dead." _A little, but not much,_ Dean thought. Still too pale, still too dazed. Of course, part of the problem right now could be that he was stoned on whatever painkiller they'd given him.

"Thanks." Sam snorted. The amusement and the smile faded as he added, "Feels like I got hit by a-"

His voice trailed off like he'd fallen asleep mid-thought and Dean couldn't help but smile. He offered, "Like you got hit by a truck?"

The look in Sam's eyes told him being hit by a truck didn't even come close to describing how he was feeling. Dean's own amusement evaporated. He said, "Come on. Let's go and you can sleep till tomorrow."

Sam didn't move and he didn't look like the idea appealed to him. From his expression, Dean guessed that, if given the option, Sam would probably be more than happy to curl up on the ground and fall asleep right there. Dean was about to try again to motivate him when Sam spoke up.

"What about you?"

"What? What about me?" Dean hadn't originally meant to be dense, but he realized what Sam meant and it sent nervous chills through him. Because he hadn't taken even a minute to come up with a plausible story to tell everyone about what had happened at his office visit.

Sam glared at him with all the annoyance he could muster. Which wasn't much.

"Later." Dean waved a hand, deciding Sam might be tired enough to let him get away with putting the discussion off for the time being. "Let's go. What were you sittin' out here for anyway?"

Lowering his gaze, Sam shrugged. "I just needed to...get outside."

Dean didn't press the matter. "So are you ready to go?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I'm hungry."

Sam smiled briefly but, despite his affirmative answer, made no effort to move.

Arla had told him to be gentle.

So Dean kept his mouth shut and didn't grab his brother's arm to haul him to his feet like he wanted to. He waited as patiently as he could even though he was on edge and needed a drink. After a few seconds, Sam shifted and Dean hoped it meant he was ready to go. That hope died a quick death as Sam's eyes slid closed and Dean realized Sam was white-knuckling the edge of the bench.

 _Has he been doing that this entire time?_ Dean wished his brain was operating a bit closer to full speed because he really should have noticed something like that before now.

"Dean?" Sam asked it in that awful tone he used far too often lately. The one that said he wasn't convinced anything he was seeing was real.

Swallowing back the threatening panic, Dean told himself it wasn't that the hallucinations were back, it was just that Sam was so wiped out he couldn't be sure of anything. So he tried to sound like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. "I'm still here. Still hungry."

The attempted humor was lost on his brother and Dean wished he hadn't bothered. Sam shot him a quick glance before he looked around area. For what Dean didn't know. But he knew it was nothing good.

"What are you looking for? There's nothing there," he said. Sam didn't seem relieved. Or convinced.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, tense and unmoving.

"Yes."

"Ok," he breathed out as he slumped forward, resting his head on his crossed arms against his knees.

Dean should have left well enough alone but he didn't because he honestly wanted to help. Honestly thought he _was_ helping. He crouched down and gently rubbed a hand against Sam's shoulders.

"Don't!" Sam's voice was wrecked, but somehow it seemed like a shout.

As he withdrew his hand and wondered what the hell he'd done wrong this time, Dean watched Sam pull away further.

Dean sucked in uneven breaths as he tried to come to grips with what was happening. Arla had said things were better. That Sam was alright. This did not seem alright. This seemed anything but alright.

Sam's breathing was no less labored than his own. Cheeks flushed bright pink, Sam straightened a bit, and said, "Sorry. Sorry. I'm ok. It's ok."

Nothing was ok. Dean frowned, not moving from where he was crouched. He asked, "Sam? What just happened?"

Sam shook his head and offered a weak smile. "I...it...uh... you startled me. It's ok."

Dean wondered if Sam was trying to convince himself by saying it was ok so often. Because he sure wasn't convincing anyone else. Sighing, Dean rubbed his eyes then focused on his skittish brother again. Time to address the issue. "What's going on with you?"

Sam was staring at the ground and not doing a very good job of looking like anything was ok. He looked freaked out and was trembling enough that Dean wanted to take his own jacket off and wrap it around his shoulders even though it was in the mid-seventies and _neither_ of them needed to be wearing a jacket in the first place. When Sam remained unresponsive for longer than Dean was comfortable with, he broke the silence a second time.

"You know you can talk to me about this crap, right?" Dean asked quietly, trying to meet Sam's eyes. "I mean, I know you don't want to, but you know you can?"

Sam nodded, sparing him a quick glance. "Yeah."

Dean felt a measure of relief. He probably wasn't going to get more than that, but at the moment, he was content with the knowledge that Sam was at least communicating with him. He was surprised when Sam spoke up again.

"Sometimes I still forget I'm here," Sam admitted, holding Dean's gaze. "He made it so convincing, you know?"

Dean nodded even though he didn't know. Not really.

"It's easy...to lose track. It...don't always seem real. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes." Sam took a shaky breath, then went on quietly, "Things remind me...of stuff that happened...things he did."

There had been plenty of times when _he'd_ had trouble convincing himself that he was alive after he'd gotten back from hell. So Dean certainly understood that aspect of Sam's struggle to some degree. What he wasn't sure he understood (or wanted to) was why Sam was still flinching every time someone-

"He touched me. A lot."

Sam's whispered confession, coupled with the shudder that shook him, answered Dean's unspoken question. Dean's jaw dropped and he felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Staring at Sam, who was completely avoiding his gaze now, Dean wished he hadn't heard what he'd said. He wished Sam had said anything except _touched_.

Tortured. Sliced. Cut. As unspeakably horrific as they were, any of those would have been better. Because those were all things he had already known. Already expected. This though? What Sam was implying was something that had never entered his mind. The entire year he'd spent living with Lisa and Ben, Dean had been plagued with nightmares of his own time in hell. Nightmares that always transitioned into terrifying imaginations of what his little brother must surely be suffering while he himself lay on clean sheets in a comfortable bed next to the woman he loved.

Dean had dreamed of bloody horrors and never ending pain.

He'd never dreamed of this.

Dean stared at his brother and saw the fear. Not unusual these days, but there was something different. This wasn't the same kind of fear in Sam's eyes as Dean had become all too familiar with lately. This was fear, true, but it went beyond Sam's fear of wondering if what he was seeing was real. Beyond the horrifying nightmares. This was heart-sickening fear of Dean realizing what Sam was hiding. What he was too afraid - too ashamed - to say.

Dean's mouth was dry and it was all he could do to not pull out the bottle and down it right now in public in front of the Penders and his brother. He had no idea how to respond. Maybe he was reading too much into it. Maybe he was assuming more than he should have. Maybe Sam didn't mean what Dean was afraid he meant by _touched._

"Don't. Not ever," Sam said suddenly, sounding stronger than he had in days.

For a moment, Dean wasn't sure what he meant.

It took his sluggish brain another second or two to muddle through the possibilities. And then Dean knew exactly what Sam meant.

 _Don't ask me about this. Don't talk about it. Not now, not ever_.

Dean couldn't blame him. He didn't want to talk about it either. Didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to wonder exactly what _touching_ meant.

It was all he could do to not turn and throw up all over the bright green grass right now.

New nightmares were ahead and Dean didn't think there was a punishment out there too harsh for him not to deserve after the way he'd failed his brother.

 _I should have found a way. I should have gotten him out of there. Found a way to keep him from ever winding up there in the first place._

He was so lost in thought that, when Sam stood up and immediately wavered, Dean was almost too late to catch him.

Standing up so quickly gave him a head rush, but Dean recovered faster than Sam did. He caught Sam's arm as he swayed; fully prepared when Sam instantly reacted and tried to pull away.

"It's just me, Sam," Dean said, keeping his voice calm and low and not letting go of Sam's arm. He repeated himself three times before Sam stopped fighting him and finally looked him in the eye. Trying for what he hoped was a smile, Dean said once more, "It's just me."

"I know," Sam whispered, slumping forward until his forehead was resting against Dean's shoulder. "I know."

Dean struggled for a moment to stay on his feet under the additional weight of one very tall, very tired little brother. He tightened his grip on Sam's arm and let his other hand rest on the back of his neck. Dean could feel the tension running through his brother's body.

"He can't ever touch you again," Dean whispered, hating that he had to be saying something like this. "He can't hurt you anymore, Sammy. Say it."

It took a few seconds, then Sam mumbled the words into his jacket.

It didn't sound like he really believed what he'd just said, but at least he seemed calmer now. Dean figured it was the best they were going to do at the moment. He felt Sam's hand grasping his jacket and his heart skipped a beat. There was no way Sam hadn't felt the bottle in his pocket. But Sam didn't say anything and maybe he was so out of it he hadn't figured out what it was. Dean hoped so because he didn't need a lecture from someone who couldn't even stand up straight.

Half a minute passed in silence, then Sam slowly pulled away. He smiled weakly and said, "I'm hungry, too."

It was the best thing Dean had heard all day.

* * *

Considering how badly the morning had started out, Arla was thrilled to see Dean and Sam walking toward the car with smiles on their faces. She didn't know what they were saying, but it looked like good-natured teasing which was a welcome sight after the scene she and Tommy had just witnessed. They'd been waiting by the car and she'd held her breath when Sam had pulled away from Dean. Whatever Sam had said at that time had leeched all the color from Dean's face and left her both curious and terrified.

Then they'd stood up and she'd felt relief sweep over her when they took hold of each other. It had only been a minute tops, but it seemed to have helped both of them. Tommy walked around and got behind the wheel, but she waited until the boys were closer. Dean was smiling as he met her gaze, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. He looked like the bottom of his world had just fallen out from under him.

"Lunch?" he asked as they approached the car.

"Absolutely." Arla nodded, returning his smile while assessing them both.

Dean was smiling but he looked even shakier and more anxious than Sam did at the moment. Sam was avoiding eye contact with everyone and didn't say anything as he walked by, but that in and of itself wasn't exactly new or a surprise.

The drive back to the house was silent, but even that was understandable. Both of the boys were tired and overwhelmed. So neither she nor Tommy pressed for conversation. Only when they'd walked into the house did she break the silence.

"Come on out to the table," she said, leading the way to the kitchen.

She'd spent the silent trip contemplating the quickest, most nutritious, most innocuous meal she could think of to make. Dean needed something bland even if he'd never admit it and, after witnessing Sam's reaction to the cup of grape juice, Arla knew that she wouldn't be making spaghetti anytime soon. Or anything that could remotely be reminiscent of blood. He hadn't said anything, but she'd put two and two together. It turned her own stomach as she considered potential reasons he'd be picturing blood instead of grape juice.

Reasons he'd be so hesitant to eat anything in the first place.

Arla pulled out the thicker sliced turkey she'd had Tommy pick up yesterday while the boys had been resting. She caught sight of both of them sitting down at the table. Sam immediately put his arms on the table and rested his head on them, while Dean sat back in his chair and stared at his brother. Whatever Sam had said out there must have been very traumatic, because Dean looked shocked and distressed.

Tommy was behind her in the kitchen and she knew without looking that he was pulling out the leftover mashed potatoes she'd made yesterday. Working together, they had the hot turkey sandwiches and mashed potatoes ready in no time. Bringing the food out, Arla saw Tommy pouring the glasses of water, then returned her attention to the status of their two houseguests.

Sam had pushed himself upright, but seemed half-asleep, and Dean was radiating tension. He was all but vibrating in his seat and when he met her eyes, Arla knew he needed to talk to her. She wanted to talk to him too, but decided asking him about his visit with the doctor in front of his brother might be a sure way for him to clam up. So she just smiled at him and served the food.

Conversation was stilted and almost nonexistent as they ate. Tommy tried out a few different innocent topics like the weather and fishing and Dean made an effort to politely reply. Sam didn't participate in the conversation. In fact, he ignored everything happening around him, but at least he was eating. By the time he pushed his chair back, mumbling something about laying down, Sam had finished everything on his plate. Dean wasn't even halfway through his food and Arla could tell he wasn't likely to eat much more.

As soon as Sam was out of sight, heading up the stairs, Dean pushed his plate away, looked her straight in the eye and asked quietly, "What happened after I left?"

Tommy paused in devouring his second plateful of food and looked at her, too.

Arla held Dean's gaze and kept her voice soft. "We talked a little and he ate a-"

"What did he say?" Dean asked, his voice as soft as hers, but brittle and sharp with worry.

Starting with the most important piece, Arla said, "He told me he's not suicidal, Dean."

The fork he was holding in his hand dropped to the table and he slumped back in his chair looking so exhausted and overwrought that Arla wondered, not for the first time, if _he_ needed something for the anxiety.

"He said that?" Dean asked before she had time to think of anything else.

"Yes."

"How?"

"How?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. How did you get him to talk about it?"

Even she wasn't entirely sure. Offering a gentle smile, Arla said, "Dean, he was ready to say it. That's all. He was hurting and afraid. He told me that he knew how worried you were about him and then he told me that."

"What else did he say?"

"That he's struggling with the memories. With what happened to him. Sam's having a difficult time coping, which is understandable." Arla watched as Dean accepted the statement with a nod before his gaze drifted to the table. Exchanging a glance with Tommy, Arla asked, "Dean? Can you tell us a little more about what happened?"

He looked up at her sharply and Arla knew he didn't like the question.

"Not everything," Arla said, trying to regain her footing. "You don't have to tell us everything, but it would help us help him if we knew more of what he's gone through."

Never mind that she was terrified to ask the question of what happened to Sam and terrified of what the answer would be. Sam had trusted her enough to open up even a little. But it wasn't enough. Up till now, she hadn't pushed too much. Had tried to respect their privacy. Understood their reasons for remaining quiet. Now, though, she needed answers.

The silence lasted a long time. Not as long as she'd expected, honestly, but long enough. Dean sighed heavily and looked up at her. He glanced at Tommy, back to her, then stared down at the table as he said in a whisper, "It was the only way."

Right then, Arla knew this was going to be a thousand times worse than she could ever have imagined.

The sentences were broken, the words halting, the hesitation and fear obvious as Dean told them about angelic plans, destiny versus free will, the battle between heaven and hell. Arla felt Tommy's hand taking hers at some point, but she was barely aware of his presence as Dean spoke. Broken seals, demon blood, and the devil. The apocalypse and a cage. Four horsemen and a desperate, horrifying last chance to save the world.

"The devil _possessed_ him?" Tommy asked when Dean's voice trailed off.

Arla blinked back tears as she looked from Dean's white face to her husband. Tommy didn't have much color to his face either. She looked back at Dean as he repeated what he'd said initially. "It was the only way."

The silence dragged on because Arla was too afraid to speak up and Tommy seemed as stunned as she was. Arla knew there were volumes more that Dean _wasn't_ telling them. Too scared to think about the blanks in the story, she considered all the disturbing ramifications of what Dean _had_ told them. Things she'd been observing all along now made nightmarish sense.

She watched as Dean's gaze shifted to the staircase. He'd apparently said all he was going to say and she couldn't blame him. She wanted to ask how his doctor's appointment had gone, but he shoved his chair back before she could get a single word out.

Dean left with a muttered comment about going to check on Sam.

* * *

The food he'd choked down wasn't settling well at all. Dean tightened his grip on the railing and breathed through the nausea that seemed to increase with every single step. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if Arla hadn't asked for answers. Who was he kidding? Dean shook his head and climbed another few steps before pausing again for breath. It wasn't what Arla had said that was turning his stomach.

It was what Sam _hadn't_ said.

Reaching the upstairs landing, Dean stepped into the bedroom Sam had been using. The overhead light and the radio were both on and Sam was curled up on top of the covers, asleep and shivering. Dean almost walked away to allow him to rest, but quickly realized Sam was having a nightmare. Before stepping forward to intervene, Dean watched him for a minute in case he'd settle. When it was obvious he wasn't breaking free from whatever he was dreaming about, Dean crossed the room.

"Sam." Dean gripped his shoulder, taking a chance. "Wake up."

To his surprise, Sam didn't fight him or punch him or even pull away. He didn't really wake up, either, but stilled almost immediately under Dean's touch. Relieved, he pulled the covers up over him. Whether Sam noticed or cared about the gesture, Dean wasn't sure. But he was settled now and didn't seem trapped in the nightmare anymore.

For the moment.

Dean rubbed his eyes and then pressed his hand to his pocket. He desperately wanted a drink, but knew he couldn't risk it yet. It was early and who knew what the rest of the day would be like after Sam woke up. Dean doubted he could hide from his brother and the Penders the rest of the day. With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. Adjusting the radio so it wasn't quite so loud, he headed for the hall. He didn't dare turn the overhead light off.

Walking to his room, Dean's attention turned to the bottle in his pocket. He couldn't carry it around with him all day. So he wrapped the bottle in a t-shirt and buried it under everything in his bag. It wasn't foolproof, of course. Sam could find it if he looked. Dean doubted Arla or Tommy would go snooping through his gear at this point, but it was certainly a possibility. He'd have to cross that bridge if he came to it.

Dead slipped out of his unnecessary jacket. He dropped it on top of his bag and decided he had two options. Take a shower to wake up or sit down and fall asleep. The bed looked inviting, but the nightmares he was already anticipating didn't. Besides, it was time he started to put himself back together so they could get on the road again as soon as Sam was ready.

By the time he'd finished the shower, Dean was tired enough to reconsider the nap. But he wasn't interested in facing the inevitable nightmares, so he got dressed and peeked into Sam's room.

To his surprise, and relief, Sam was where he'd left him and didn't appear to be in any distress.

 _A minor miracle,_ Dean thought to himself, smothering a cough in the crook of his arm.

The shower had served to wake him up, but it had also apparently loosened the crap in his sinuses to the point that the drainage was nearly constant. The back of his throat tickled and hurt and by the time he made it back downstairs, he had a headache from the coughing.

"Dean?"

He stumbled off the last step and felt a hand catch his arm. Blinking at Arla, he realized maybe he wasn't as awake as he'd thought.

"Come sit down," Arla said, taking charge without hesitation.

Dean didn't argue because he was too tired to fight and coughing too hard to protest. Not that he would have been successful in an argument with her anyway. Less than five minutes later he found himself settled in the armchair, a cup of warm tea with honey being pressed into his hand.

"It will be good for your throat."

Arla sounded certain and she _was_ a doctor, so Dean took a cautious sip. He hated tea, would rather have had coffee, but he couldn't deny it didn't feel good on his throat. Arla was sitting on the couch and he saw her setting a bottle of water on the end table next to him. She didn't disturb him until he'd finished most of the tea. It took him longer than he'd expected because every other sip was punctuated by an uncontrolled coughing spell.

Taking the mug from his annoyingly shaky hand, Arla set it aside and pressed a couple pills into his hand. Dean looked up, his voice like gravel as he asked, "What're those?"

Arla smiled, opening the bottle of water. "Tylenol. Your throat and head must be hurting from all the coughing. And you feel a little warm."

Dean didn't remember her touching him, but knew she probably had. His mind was foggy enough, and she was sneaky enough, that it didn't really surprise him. So he took the pills because his throat and head _did_ hurt and he did feel warm, now that she'd gone and mentioned it. Resting the water bottle against his forehead, Dean closed his eyes.

Vaguely, he listened to movement around him. A gentle hand took the bottle from his and he was pushed back into the chair. A cool cloth was laid over his eyes before he had the chance to say anything.

"Try to get a little rest, Dean," Arla said, running her fingers through his hair. "You've had a rough day."

Rough barely scratched the surface of what the day had been like. He shifted because he couldn't give in to the pull of exhaustion. He couldn't sleep because he was going to have nightmares and he couldn't sleep because _Sam_ was going to-

"Dean, you're both safe. You can get some sleep now."

Arla's hand brushed through his hair again and, if anyone else had tried it, he probably would have punched them. But the motion, coupled with her soft voice, had a magical way of relaxing him. The cool cloth over his eyes was helping ease the pounding behind his eyes.

"I'm going to take care of you both."

Arla's whisper drifted to him from what must have been a long distance away. Dean thought he should thank her, but he was too tired and she was getting farther and farther away. Her promise to check on Sam was the last reassurance he needed to fall into a shockingly peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Just as he settled into the calm, Dean thought he felt a gentle kiss on the top of his head. He smiled to himself at the ridiculous thought. The only person he _ever_ remembered kissing him good-night like that had been his mother.

He remembered the scent of the lilacs she'd grown outside the front window and dreamed of her.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	34. Chapter 34

**Hope your week has been going well so far. This weekend I hid from everyone and basically stayed curled up in bed with my Chromebook writing the entire time! (except for when I stayed up till midnight Saturday binge-watching _Stranger Things_. :D ) **

**Here's chapter 34...and to give you a hint as to how productive I've been (when not binge-watching _Stranger Things_ ), ch 35 and ch 36 are COMPLETE! Chapter 37 is well on its way too. :D Much polishing ahead but I'm hoping to get ch 35 up this weekend!**

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 34**_

Tommy looked up from the puzzle when he saw Arla at the back door.

He'd been working on the dishes when Dean had come downstairs after checking on his brother. Allowing Arla to take care of him, Tommy had left finished the dishes, then returned to back porch and the puzzle. A few more pieces and it would be completed, but he left it where it was and met Arla as she walked outside.

She waved in the direction of the double swing under the big oak tree. Guessing she wanted to be a little further from the house, Tommy followed her without a word. Only once they were sitting down and she was settled next to him, her hand in his, did he break the silence.

"How did things go in there?"

"Not too badly. Dean took the meds and he's sound asleep in the armchair."

"That's good."

Arla nodded. "He needs the rest. This wasn't an easy day for him. For either of them."

"Sam?"

"I checked on him before I came outside. He was asleep, too."

"Good. Hopefully they both can sleep for a solid few hours." Tommy glanced at his watch. It had been a long day. "How were things at his appointment?"

"Challenging." Arla explained the way Sam had initially dismissed her, then began to open up. "He seemed more comfortable talking to me, but it's pretty clear he's having trouble accepting the idea that he's dealing with PTSD and panic attacks, but I think it's beginning to make sense to him."

"I'm glad to hear it." Tommy smiled, knowing what a relief that was for her after how things had gone during her last conversation with Sam. "I knew you could connect with him."

"You're going to laugh when you hear the rest of how I connected with him," Arla said, shaking her head. "I was trying to find something that he likes to do. Something he might use for stress relief. I wanted to give him something he could focus on rather than remaining in this cycle of negativity and anxiety he's been caught up in."

"Makes sense. So what's this thing I'm going to laugh about?" Tommy teased even though he had no intention of laughing.

"His method of stress relief is running."

Tommy laughed.

"I knew you would laugh!" Arla elbowed him in the side, but she was smiling, too.

"Of all the things for him to say-"

"I know." Arla sighed. "I suppose it really was too much to expect for him to say he liked baking."

"Maybe a bit." Tommy couldn't help but laugh again. Shaking his head, he asked, "So are you planning to dust off your running shoes or are you going to put me back in training?"

Arla looked up at him then back at the house. "Much as I want to leave you boys to your dreadful form of physical exertion, I think you might have been right about him needing a little mothering. He's still a bit of a challenge to get close to, but I think this approach might work. So, yes, I'll be dusting off the running shoes. I'm going to hate every second of it, but if it gets Sam back on his feet, it will be worth it."

"So will you start running again with me after this?"

"Absolutely not."

Tommy wasn't surprised at all. She never had liked running. They settled more comfortably together as the swing rocked gently in the breeze. After a few minutes, Arla broke the silence. "Did Dean say anything to you about how his appointment went?"

"No."

"I guess that shouldn't surprise me."

"His expression and the way he was acting told me enough."

Arla shifted and frowned up at him. "What do you mean?"

Tommy thought back to the moment Dean had walked out into the lobby. It wasn't easy to explain. "There was just something...off. He didn't look right. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall in that exam room."

"Me too."

"He was worried, of course, but it was more than worry and anger," Tommy continued, trying to put his finger on exactly what had bothered him.

"He certainly has plenty of anger and worry to go around."

"Yes, he does." Tommy thought for a moment longer, then snapped his fingers, "It was guilt."

"What?"

Tommy sat up a bit more. "He looked guilty. Like he'd done something he shouldn't have."

"Probably ignored everything the doctor told him."

"Most likely."

"I should have gone with him."

"I doubt he would have let you. But I think that's what it was. He was very evasive. I'm guessing he didn't like what the doctor had to say."

Arla brushed her hair back from her eyes as a gust of wind rocked the swing. "Since I'm guessing the focus of their conversation was his drinking habits, I'm sure he didn't like what the doctor had to say at all. He needs to listen. And he needs to acknowledge his problem."

"I think he's acknowledged it," Tommy said, reflecting on their conversation at the bar the other day. "But he's a long way from accepting that he needs to do something about it. Just because he's aware that it's an issue doesn't mean he's ready to change."

"He _needs_ to change or he's going to be in more trouble than he's already in. If he doesn't deal with this, he's going to go straight back to drinking when they leave here."

"I'm sure he will."

Arla looked at him and he almost felt bad for saying it because he could tell how much it upset her. But it was the truth. Somewhere between the second ER visit and the doctor's visit today, Tommy had reached the sad conclusion that there might not be much more they would be able to do to help Dean. He hadn't given up, not at all, but there was a desperation and depth of damage in him that Tommy had seldom seen in one so young. Arla had tears in her eyes, and he hated seeing it even though he loved her for her undying compassion for anyone and everyone sick or in pain.

"Honey, if they could stay with us longer, it might make a difference, but I'm not even sure about that at this point. Six years ago, when we found them at that motel, back when they were just kids, if their course had changed direction at that point, I think it could be a very different outcome. But right now, I don't think we can do much to change their lives."

"Tommy-"

"We're not giving up and we're gonna do every single thing we can to _try,_ but you need to accept the fact that they're grown men who live incredibly difficult lives. Lives that, whether any of us like it or not, they will have to return to."

"I know."

"All we can do is try to get them back into fighting condition."

"I don't want them to have to fight anymore." Arla rested her head against his shoulder. "You heard what Dean told us about everything they've gone through. Look what it's done to both of them!"

He sighed, glancing back to the house and thinking about exactly what it had done to both of them. He didn't want them to have to fight anymore, either. But he understood they would need to. They didn't strike him as the retiring types.

Arla followed his gaze and asked, "You really think he's going to start drinking again?"

"Unfortunately, I don't _think_ he will; I _know_ he will. He may keep it under control for awhile. I think he's realized the severity of his problem so he's probably going to be more careful. But it's how he copes and if he needs to cope with something, he's going to drink. And if he's coping with more of the kind of crap he was telling us about earlier, then he's going to drink. A lot."

"I suppose if we made them come home with us and kept them under house-arrest until they were both better, it would be considered kidnapping, wouldn't it?" Arla asked with a sigh.

Tommy snickered at the thought. "I'm pretty sure we couldn't possibly keep them under house-arrest. Those boys strike me as the type who learned how to pick a lock before they learned how to drive."

"Oh, probably." Arla shook her head. The tiny smile on her lips faded as she said, "I just want to take care of them."

"Hey, you are." Tommy shifted again and tilted her head up so she met his eyes. "I already asked you this, but where do you think they would be right now if you hadn't sought them out? If you hadn't been persistent even when Dean tried to shut the door in your face?"

Arla didn't say anything, but he knew she understood his point.

"It may be a drop in the bucket in the grand scheme of how screwed up their lives are," Tommy continued, "and they still have a long way to go, but they're both doing better. Dean could have _died,_ Arla. Sam wouldn't have been able to handle that."

"You're right. I know you are."

"Ok." He pulled her closer and squeezed her shoulder. "So what we're gonna do is exactly what we've been doing. I don't know how much longer they're going to be willing to stay put, but as long as they're here, we can help them as best as we can."

Arla nodded.

"Speaking of that, while you're running with Sam," Tommy grinned at her annoyed expression, "I have a little project to occupy Dean."

"Oh you do, do you?" Arla perked up, obviously interested in more optimistic topics of conversation.

"I do."

"And would this little mysterious project of yours have anything to do with that secret phone call the other day?"

"Oh you mean that one I had right before Dean decided to hit up a bar and all hell broke loose?"

"That would be the one."

"I bought a car," Tommy announced with a grin.

Arla stared at him for a moment and Tommy was, yet again, reminded that he had the best wife on the planet. She nodded and said, "I think that's an excellent idea."

He didn't even need to explain what his plan was. She already knew.

Arla asked, "You called Stevie?"

"Yeah. And he wants sprinkles on his cupcakes."

"Of course he does. Did you pay him in cupcakes?"

"Not entirely. But he does expect cupcakes when I pick the car up."

"I think I can handle that." Arla smiled. "Did you tell Dean?"

"I told him I needed his help with a project but I didn't tell him what that project was."

"You are sneaky and a genius, you know that?" Arla leaned closer for a kiss.

"I have heard that a time or two."

"Are you going to tell him you bought it for them?"

Tommy shook his head. "Not for awhile. I'm just gonna tell him that I'm working on a friend's car."

"Sneaky, sneaky." Arla patted his cheek. "I approve."

"Good. Because that's not the only sneaky plan this genius has."

"Do tell!"

Tommy grinned wider at Arla's piqued interest. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

Arla frowned. "Seriously?"

"Yes. Seriously."

Their entire married life he'd been a vault of secrets when it came to surprises. Sure, he'd forgotten a birthday once or twice. And yes, their seventeenth anniversary had somehow slipped his mind and it had taken him quite a bit of effort to dig himself out of that mess. Otherwise he'd always managed to keep the best surprises and nothing tormented Arla more than waiting on a surprise.

But she knew better, after all these years, than to press him for details. Because she'd never get them. She huffed dramatically, but her mood had been considerably lifted so Tommy was satisfied.

"I should go check on them."

 _Well, distraction worked for a whole minute._ He almost told her to stay put because it hadn't really been that long since they'd walked outside. But he didn't, because, as they'd already witnessed several times over, things could go from bad to worse in a heartbeat.

"Ok," he said, and allowed Arla to pull away. "Go check on them. Then let's go swimming."

Arla laughed. "Absolutely not."

"Why?"

She stared at him like he was nuts. "For one thing, I don't want to be doing the backstroke when one of them has a meltdown. It's difficult to be professional when you're dripping wet."

"You think there are still meltdowns ahead?"

"You don't?"

"Point taken. You said _for one thing._ What's the other thing?"

"The other thing is that there's no way I'm putting on a swimsuit when we have visitors."

He caught her hand as she stood up and pulled her back until she was sitting on his lap. Whispering in her ear, he asked, "Who said anything about swimsuits?"

Arla's eyes lit up in amusement. "If you think I'm going skinny dipping with you again you're insane."

"But the last time was so-"

"It was 'so' _,_ alright. Up until the moment those hikers got between us and our clothes."

She had a point, he had to admit. The water had felt pretty cold by the time the hikers moved away and they were able to swim back to shore. But it had been a _really_ good experience until then.

He grinned. "Fine. Not today."

"Not ever, you crazy man."

"Compromise? When we're on our own, you get the bikini out?

"You're going to have to take me to Tahiti if you want to see me in that bikini again." Arla rolled her eyes. "And I will need to go running with Sam _frequently._ I'm not exactly in shape these days. I feel like lumpy pudding."

"You do know I love tapioca pudding, right?"

She punched him in the shoulder for that and pulled away. But she was smiling again and leaned over for a kiss. She said, "I'm going to check on them. How about you think of something else for us to amuse ourselves with until dinner? Something that involves _clothes._ "

"We're not doing laundry," Tommy whined.

"Not today anyway. I was thinking more along the lines of croquet or a nice game of chess on the back porch. You pick," Arla said over her shoulder as she headed up to the house.

"Bring back snacks!" he called.

* * *

They'd wound up playing a few rounds of croquet. Then Arla had baked, frosted, and sprinkled the cupcakes and still their guests slept. She'd checked on them again and agreed when Tommy suggested they go ahead and start dinner. Tommy had the fire going and the pogie pies cooking over it when she returned to the kitchen for the pitcher of lemonade. Hearing movement, she set the pitcher on the counter and went to investigate.

Sam was standing halfway between the stairs and the kitchen table, frowning as he studied the floor like he was lost and seeking directions. He looked terrible and Arla wasn't sure what to expect, but she called out a cautious, soft greeting. Turning slowly, his eyes settled on her and, to her surprise but great relief, he smiled.

It faded quickly and she guessed he was just too tired to maintain it. He walked toward her and said, "Hey."

Arla smiled at the sleepy greeting as he rubbed his eyes and put one hand against the table.

"You seen-"

"He's sleeping in the armchair," Arla said, anticipating his question.

Maybe she shouldn't have done that, because apparently her remark derailed Sam's thought process for a moment. He stared at her and she could tell he was trying to combine his unfinished question with her too quick answer into something that made sense. After a few seconds, he nodded and the confusion faded.

"Are you hungry, Sam?"

"Yeah."

 _Another miracle!_

"We're making sandwiches out around the fire. Does that sound good or is there something else you'd like?"

He turned and glanced out the window, deliberating briefly. "Sandwiches are fine."

"What would you like to drink? I have lemonade, tea, milk and there's probably some soda-"

"Water's ok."

"Alright." Arla walked back to the fridge for a bottle. When she turned around he was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She managed not to jump in surprise at how fast he'd managed to move.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked, peering around the kitchen with more interest than he'd shown in anything up to this point.

She was pleased with this turn of events, but had to quickly wrack her brain for something to give him to do. Most of the food was already outside and he wasn't anywhere near steady enough to handle carrying the pitcher of lemonade. But there was another bag of chips on top of the fridge and there were still some cookies wrapped up on a plate on the counter.

"Thank you, that would be great," she said, reaching for the bag of chips.

He had them off the top of the fridge before she could get them. Smiling her thanks, Arla went for the plate of cookies and handed them to him. When he stood there as if waiting for her to lead, Arla grabbed the pitcher of lemonade and headed for the back door. Midway there, her shadow paused.

"Sam?"

"Maybe...I should check on him. First." He was looking toward the living room "Uh...before we go. In case."

"Sure." Arla nodded.

He took one step toward the living room then paused and looked back at her.

Sensing his indecision, Arla said, "I'll wait."

"Ok."

She watched him go and, even if he was moving like he wasn't quite sure the ground was steady beneath his feet, he made it without incident. Arla glanced outside and saw that Tommy was standing at the card table they'd set up for the food. He was making another sandwich so apparently he'd noticed one of their guests was joining them.

Quiet voices drew her attention and she looked toward the living room. She didn't hear what was being said, but she heard coughing and the low mumble of conversation. A peek at the clock showed her that it was after seven. Later than she'd realized, but it meant both of the boys had managed to get a decent amount of sleep.

Sam walked back around the corner and now he was the one with the shadow. Obviously Dean hadn't been sitting there awake for any period of time. She wondered if Sam had woke him up. She couldn't quite hide her amused smile at Dean's grumpy expression as he stumbled out after his brother. He coughed into his sleeve a few times, then caught sight of her.

Dean's smile erased any trace of moodiness. He raised a hand in greeting as he followed Sam. Once they were closer, he said, "Comfy chair."

"Glad you like it." She smiled and asked, "Ready for dinner?"

"Yes, please. I'm starving."

Happy they were both interested in eating, Arla started toward the door. Dean got there first and held it open for her. With the bottle of water in one hand and the pitcher in the other, she appreciated the help. Thanking him as she walked past, Arla waited on the porch until both boys were outside, then led the way to the fire.

"Perfect timing." Tommy called out as they approached. "First round of Pogie Pies are ready!"

"Pogie pies?" Dean asked. He still sounded like he had gargled with rocks, but, he hadn't coughed since the first time and didn't sound anywhere near as congested as he had the past couple of days.

Tommy nodded. "Sandwiches. Over the fire. You thought campfires were only for hot dogs and marshmallows, didn't you?"

Arla smiled at the vaguely suspicious expression on Dean's face as he peered first at the fire, then back to Tommy. She took the plate of cookies and chips from Sam with a quiet thanks as Tommy launched into a lengthy explanation of what a Pogie Pie was.

While he continued his lecture, she subtly guided both boys to chairs and handed them each a paper plate. Tommy served up the sandwiches and she couldn't help but laugh at Dean's dubious expression. She patted him on the shoulder and said, "I'd never heard of these things either until the first time he took me camping."

Dean nodded, tilting his head as he analyzed the sandwich. "What're they made of?"

"Can be anything. Whatever you can think of to put between two slices of bread. We usually put canned blueberries in for dessert." Tommy sat down and closed the pie iron around another sandwich. He held it out over the fire. "These are just basically grilled cheese with ham. Two slices of bread, buttered, cheese and ham inside and they go in these handy cooker-thingies."

Arla opened a bag of chips and shook her head. After all these years, he still refused to call them pie irons. She looked back in time to watch Dean take his first bite. It must not have been too bad. He gave Tommy a thumbs up and took another bite.

Sam's sandwich was already half gone.

Tommy had a second sandwich ready for Sam by the time the first was finished. Arla went back for another bottle of water for Dean, returning in time to hear him telling a humorous story about the time they'd wound up facing a grouchy teddy bear magically come to life thanks to a coin. Arla didn't know how the conversation had started, but she enjoyed the fact Dean appeared to be having a good time telling the tale.

For almost an hour, they sat around the fire eating while Tommy and Dean went back and forth sharing the funniest stories they could remember from the cases they'd worked. Most of Tommy's stories she'd heard before, although there were a few new ones, but listening to Dean's stories gave her an entirely new perspective on what the Winchester brothers' lives were like.

Weird.

Terrifying and filled with other people's worst nightmares, but also weird. Weird like children's crayon drawings coming to life. Weird like possessed scarecrows and time travel to the Old West. Despite the weirdness, Arla gained new insight into the _good_ side of things as well.

Dean talked about funny things that they saw along their never ending journey back and forth across the United States. He talked about their personal rating system for level of grossness of motel rooms. The places to find the best diners with the best burgers and which ones to avoid at all costs, including the one they'd accidentally eaten at once as kids and again a few years back.

Both times, they'd both wound up with food poisoning and Arla made a mental note to never, ever go near _Friday's Place_ in Pembine, Wisconsin.

Although the conversation mainly focused on the trading of funny 'war' stories, a lot more was revealed then Dean probably realized.

Sam smiled at the stories but didn't say much. He did pipe up a few times along the way. Each time he did, Dean yielded the conversation immediately and Arla could see how relieved he was, how _proud_ he was, that Sam was talking at all. The longer they sat there, though, the less Sam contributed and Arla could see him withdrawing moment by moment. Dean seemed to sense it too. He kept up with Tommy's stories, but she caught him watching Sam more closely.

When there was a lull in conversation because both Tommy and Dean were chewing on their blueberry pogie pies, Sam politely offered his thanks for the meal and said he was heading for bed.

Dean frowned and, mouth full, asked softly, "You ok?"

Sam nodded, but didn't comment as he turned and walked away.

Arla shook her head when Dean dropped the sandwich on the plate and pushed himself forward in his chair, sending her a concerned glance. He paused in his movement when she held up a hand, but watched until Sam had made it to the house. When Arla heard the door close, she said, "Let him go, Dean."

"He-"

"He needs some time to himself."

The relaxed demeanor from moments ago was gone and there was fire in his eyes when Dean said, "He had a _gun_ in his hand the last time he had some time to himself."

Arla knew that image, and the terror behind it, would be burned into Dean's mind forever.

He did settle back in his chair though, even if he didn't stop staring at the house. He sounded a little less angry when he said, "Sorry. It's just that...it wasn't the first time."

Frowning, she exchanged a look with Tommy, then asked, "What do you mean?"

Dean studied her for a long moment. Considering. She could tell he was deciding whether to tell them or not. After a long moment, he started talking.

"When Sam first admitted to me'n Bobby about the hallucinations and all that crap, I benched him. I should've known how bad it was when he didn't fight me on it." Dean shook his head, obviously the situation still bothered him. "Bobby and I both wound up having to leave to work the case which left Sam alone at Bobby's place. Long story short? I had to track his phone to find him. He was shooting up an empty warehouse. He'd somehow driven himself there thinking I was with him. Almost shot me when I did show up. Couldn't tell if I was real or not."

He snorted and half-smiled, then shook his head. "I don't know what would've happened if I hadn't gotten there when I did."

The implication was clear and Arla began to realize Dean's fear about leaving his brother alone didn't stem merely from what had happened last night. She took a deep breath and tried to figure out what she should say. Tommy beat her to it.

"Dean, I understand why you're so concerned," Tommy said, leaning forward in his chair and looking at Dean over the flames. "We both do. But if you never trust him to be alone, he's never going to trust _himself_ to be alone. He's not hallucinating. He specifically told Arla he wasn't thinking of hurting himself. He just sat out here with us for nearly an hour-"

"I know, but-"

"It was a huge step for him," Tommy continued, "and I'm sure it was extremely stressful. Give him a little time, then you can go check on him."

He was far from happy about it, but Dean nodded without further comment and took another bite of his sandwich. While she had him on his own, Arla desperately wanted to talk to him about his own doctor's appointment, but she didn't dare. He was one wrong move from snapping as it was.

Rubbing his eyes, Dean sighed and stared into the fire. "We've never done this before." Looking up, he clarified, "Sit around a fire for fun. We've camped on hunts before, or sometimes because we couldn't find or afford a motel."

Her heart ached at the casual way he said it. Not once in her life had she been lacking for a warm bed or a roof over her head. But Dean acted like it was perfectly normal. Other than the mention of Bobby's place earlier, Arla had never once heard either of them talk about a home. Come to think of it, she couldn't honestly say she recalled ever hearing either of them say the _word_ aloud and she tried to imagine what a life on the road would be like. She'd grown up on the road, so to speak, but moving a few times a year to different military bases was a far cry from living in motel rooms all the time.

Tommy had started talking about some of their camping trips and his conversation managed to hold Dean's attention for a little while. But he looked almost as tired as Sam had and he was still worrying himself sick. So when he pushed himself to his feet, Arla didn't try to hold him back this time.

"Let us know if you need anything," she said, catching his arm as he walked past her chair. He looked down at her with a faint smile. Returning the smile, she released his arm. "Anytime. Anything. Ok? We're right here and please don't be afraid to wake us up if you need something tonight."

Dean stared at her for a long time with an unreadable expression. When he nodded, though, she knew he would come for them if there was any problem.

Hoping they were both going to get some sleep, Arla watched him go, then pulled her chair closer to Tommy and got out the marshmallows.

* * *

For one second, as he reached the open bedroom door, Dean thought maybe Sam had actually gone to bed like he'd said he was planning to. The lights and radio were off, but he wasn't sure that was a good thing once he'd walked into the room. The evening light was fading from the opened window and the curtains moved gently in the breeze as Dean took in the sight of his brother.

Sam wasn't in bed. He was sitting on the floor, back to the wall. Dean tried not to sigh as he walked closer and sat down on the edge of the bed. He shouldn't have waited so long to come check on him.

Despite the fact there was no way Sam could have missed seeing him walk in, it was as if wasn't there at all. Sam's eyes were blank and unfocused and staring a hole in the opposite wall.

"Sam?" Dean called cautiously.

It seemed like there was no progress without retreat these days. Sam didn't answer him. Dean knew he was being unfair. The day had been full of small steps of progress even if right now it looked like they'd taken three steps backwards. Dean tried calling his name again, but Sam was either ignoring him or completely oblivious. Judging from the glazed look in his eyes, Dean figured he was oblivious.

Studying him, Dean caught sight of the book Matt had given him at the hospital. It was sitting right next to Sam; face down and open, as if he'd been reading and dropped it on the open pages. It wasn't the way Sam would typically treat a book, but since very little he did these days was what Sam typically did, it wasn't really a surprise.

"Book too boring for you?" Dean asked, just to fill the silence.

Sam didn't confirm nor deny and Dean was ready to leave him alone and hope he would snap out of whatever trance he was in on his own. Then he realized Sam's hands were clenched into tight fists where they rested against his thighs and Dean wasn't going anywhere. Sam spaced out, sadly, wasn't anything new or unusual. But spaced out and obviously tense enough to snap, wasn't something Dean could walk away from.

"Hey. What's going on?"

Sam didn't respond. For the first time, it registered with Dean that Sam was wearing his jacket. He hadn't been wearing it outside earlier and there was no way he needed to be wearing it right now. The room felt overly warm.

"I'm cold."

Dean almost jumped out of his skin. He stared in surprise at his brother who apparently was reading his mind. Sam finally looked at him, but his eyes were still scary vague. Dean shook his head and said, "You're not cold, it's all-"

He caught himself before he finished that sentence. Yes, it _was_ technically all in Sam's head. Saying that to someone who Dean wasn't convinced was fully grounded in reality at the moment didn't seem wise, though.

Sighing, Dean tried to get back to the subject. "I thought you were going to bed. What are you doing sitting there?"

"Reading."

Dean's eyebrows rose. He glanced at the book, noted Sam's hands were relaxed now, then asked, "Hard to read with the book on the carpet, isn't it?"

"The words...started swimming," Sam said slowly, like the words were swimming in his head, too, and he couldn't quite pin them down. "Couldn't...concentrate. I can't remember what I just read."

"I don't remember half of what I read either," Dean said, forcing a smile. The attempt at teasing was lost on his brother.

"Dean, I'm cold."

 _Back to that. Okie dokie, then_. "Think you're running a fever?"

"I don't know."

Dean raised a hand, caught himself in time. "You gonna freak out on me if I check?"

Sam stared back at him like he was crazy and Dean thought that was funny considering Sam was the one complaining of being cold while wearing a jacket in a seventy-something-degree room. Since he received no protest, Dean went ahead and put his fingers against his brother's forehead. No freak out and no fever as far as he could tell. A little warm, yes, but Dean had guessed that had more to do with the warm night and the jacket. He was about to say as much when Sam spoke up.

"Why can't I get warm?"

 _Yeah, he's not all the way with me._ Dean wanted to shake his brother and somehow bring him back to reality. Instead, he found himself with an unexpected supply of patience. Because Dean remembered standing in Detroit with his brother as the devil had mocked them and mentioned that, while most people thought he burned hot, it was actually the opposite. It hadn't been every day, but Dean had certainly noticed how much more cold-sensitive Sam had become since getting Cas had broken the wall.

Well, if he was cold, then the best thing was to get under the covers. Dean patted the bed. "You should lay down. I can get you another blanket if you're still cold, ok?"

Sam nodded.

"Good." _Step one. Now for step two._ "How's the headache?"

A half shrug was the only answer he got, but the pinched look on his face told Dean how bad it still was. "Ok. Let's take care of that, too. Pills then bed."

Sam shook his head against the wall. His eyes were still unfocused, but a little clearer now as he said, "Don't want them."

 _Not exactly breaking news._ Deciding he needed to choose his battles, Dean tried to keep his voice even. "Well you're gonna take the Tylenol even if you don't want the good stuff."

Sam sighed, closing his eyes. He didn't shrug and he didn't say anything.

Dean nodded as if he'd received an answer and pushed himself to his feet. He walked around the bed to the collection of pills and studied the bottle of heavy duty painkillers. Pushing them aside, and ignoring the other pills - the ones for anxiety - he dumped out two Tylenol. He grabbed the bottle of water left over from yesterday.

"When are we leaving?" Sam asked, and Dean heard the mattress springs as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"We're not going anywhere for awhile."

Sam looked up and it was clear that he didn't like the answer.

Dean didn't like it either, but it was the way it was. He walked around the bed and handed Sam the pills and water. Once Sam had taken them, Dean set the water aside and said, "You're not ready. And neither am I."

He was glad he'd added the second statement because the flash of hurt in Sam's eyes had been like a dagger to his heart. As difficult as it was for him to admit, it was the truth. Sam wasn't anywhere near ready to be under the pressure of hunting Leviathans or anything else.

But neither was he.

"Dean, you gotta stop drinking," Sam whispered, staring at the floor.

"And you gotta get that coat off." Dean ignored Sam's comment because now was not the time for that conversation. _Not now. Not ever._ He tugged at the jacket.

Sam dropped the subject and allowed Dean to help him out of his jacket. It should have been a good sign, but it was just another indication of how _not_ good things were. Because the thing that bothered Dean most about this particular situation was the fact that Sam wasn't pretending he was fine. He hadn't uttered a peep of complaint for the way Dean was currently trying to take care of him in a way that - on a normal day - he never would have allowed.

The fact that Sam was feeling so bad he wasn't even trying to hide how bad he was feeling worried Dean more than anything else.

Dean dropped the jacket over the back of the desk chair. By the time he turned around again, Sam was lying on his side, pulling the covers up. After a second, he looked over at Dean. He didn't say anything, but there was something in his expression that kept Dean from leaving. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed and waited.

For what, he didn't know.

Even with the window open, the room was on the warm side and Dean's shirt was sticking to his skin. But Sam was shivering like he was laying in a snowbank, so Dean made sure the covers were over his shoulders. He left his hand on his brother's back and felt the tension under his fingers. Dean wondered how they'd ever made it this far.

"I still feel crazy." Sam's soft words broke the silence.

"Yeah, well you aren't," Dean answered automatically.

He studied his brother closely. Sam's eyes were open again and he didn't look crazy. Didn't even have that spaced out or freaked out expression on his face. He just looked exhausted. Like sleeping for a month wouldn't be enough for him to recover.

If he hadn't been watching, Dean would have missed what he said next. As it was, he more or less had to read Sam's lips because his voice wasn't even loud enough to qualify as a whisper.

"I think I need to take one of those pills."

Dean didn't need clarification. It was both a concern and, somehow, a relief. He didn't want Sam taking those pills any more than Sam wanted to be taking them. But judging by - well, _everything_ \- Dean knew they were a necessary evil. At least for now. He took his time getting up and grabbing one of the pills he'd ignored earlier. He didn't want Sam thinking he was in a rush to drug him up.

Sam pushed himself upright enough to take the pill with a sip of water, then collapsed back against the pillow like the mere act had stolen the last bit of strength he had left. Dean set the bottle aside and was about to sit back down because Sam hadn't dismissed him yet, when Sam spoke up again.

"I remembered." Sam's voice was hesitant and he closed his eyes before continuing. "About...Bobby. I remembered all of it."

And, just like that, Dean needed a drink.

 _Now._

So he turned and walked out of the room.

Even when he heard Sam call his name, Dean didn't stop walking until he reached the other bedroom. He wanted to slam the door. Wanted to punch a wall. Actually, he wanted to kill Dick Roman with his bare hands. He retrieved the bottle from his bag and put it in his jacket pocket even though it was too hot to be wearing a coat and it would probably look suspicious.

 _Get out. Get drunk._

Vague notions like _take a weapon_ and _need a good story to tell the Penders_ and _don't walk away from him_ floated on the periphery of his mind. The bright, neon, flashing light, though, said _GET OUT._ So he tucked his gun under his shirt, pulled on the unnecessary jacket and headed back the way he'd come.

It was an awful thing to do, but he walked straight down the stairs without so much as a glance in the direction of the other bedroom. If Sam called for him again, Dean didn't hear it. The guilt that came from walking out on his brother when Sam was obviously struggling almost halted his forward movement. But then he was down the stairs and the door was in sight and it was all he could do not to run.

Dean saw the Penders were still sitting by the fire and he thought about going out the front door to avoid them. But he couldn't do that because this wasn't a petty, stupid argument that he was walking away from. This wasn't a motel room and he wasn't crossing the road to a nearby bar. This wasn't the ordinary, typical, usual night and he couldn't leave without making sure someone would be able to tell Sam - when he inevitably started flipping out - that his brother was coming back.

So he walked out and hated that Arla's welcoming smile faded almost immediately as if she sensed something was wrong. He hated that it was his fault she and Tommy were losing their entire vacation. And he hated that Sam had brought Bobby up.

By the time he reached their chairs, Dean knew he was about thirty seconds away from exploding.

"I'm taking a walk," he said, not even pausing his steps as he passed them. His voice shook as badly as his hands did. "I'll be back, but I need to take a walk."

"Alright, Dean."

Tommy's voice already sounded far away. Dean could hear both of them talking and he assumed Arla was less than pleased, but he didn't care. She wasn't his mother and he didn't have to ask for permission.

* * *

 **There is no " _Friday's Place"_ in Pembine, WI, in case you're wondering. :) There is a Mary's Place and eating there has never caused food poisoning that I know of lol. **

**Also, IDK if anyone out there has ever heard of "Pogie Pies" or not. That was the name on the pie irons we bought twenty-some years ago and have taken camping ever since (apparently Tommy bought the same type). Upon google-searching the term, I came up empty haha! Otherwise, these campfire delicacies have been known as "Hobo Pies" or "Pudgy Pies." Just a useless bit of trivia for ya ;)**

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter...more to come soon! Have a great evening :)**


	35. Chapter 35

**Hi! Hope you all have been having a great weekend and that you will enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 35**_

Sam wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

About everything.

But mostly, about Bobby.

The breeze was gentle and the peaceful evening songs of the birds beyond the window were the antithesis to the raging cacophony inside his head. As was the new norm, he had trouble sorting through the jumbled thoughts. Bringing up Bobby had been a stupid thing to do and Sam wasn't even sure why he'd said anything in the first place.

What did it matter if he remembered everything? It would have been better if he _hadn't_ remembered. But since he had, some small part of him had cried out with the need for acknowledgement. For understanding. For comfort.

Instead, all he'd done was make his brother angry and leave himself feeling worse than he had to start with. Watching his brother walk out of the room without a word terrified him. For one thing, he worried about what Dean was planning to do to deal with the unwanted emotions Sam had unintentionally stirred up.

For another thing, he didn't want to be alone.

It was stupid, he told himself again, as he pressed his face into the pillow. Stupid to have said anything and stupid to be so needy. They were as safe with the Penders as they could possibly be anywhere these days. He was getting his head screwed back on right and he really should have been able to handle being in a room by himself.

There were no more hallucinations and, for the most part, no more confusing memories. Sam didn't feel like his head was his own quite yet, thanks to the drugs, but it was getting there. He hated the way the meds messed with his thinking; made him still feel like he'd hadn't quite been put back together. Everything supposedly was back where it belonged, but he still felt wrong.

Sighing, he shifted and pulled his face out of the suffocating concealment of the pillow. Staring at the curtains as the breeze gently pushed them back and forth, Sam wondered where Dean had gone and when he'd be back. Maybe he'd just gone out to the fire again. Surely he couldn't have gone anywhere without Tommy or Arla noticing.

Despite his attempts at consoling himself, his heart was thudding way too fast and his fingers were cramping as they gripped the edge of the bed. His head hurt and Sam had a feeling the Tylenol wasn't going to cut it. Thinking about the other pills - the stronger ones that might actually dull the throbbing headache - only made things worse because that line of thinking led him straight back to the psychiatric hospital which lead him straight back to the devil.

Sam pushed himself upright, shivering in the evening air. His shirt was damp with sweat and his face damp with tears. He brushed them away. He shouldn't be sitting around feeling sorry for himself while Dean was out there probably doing something they'd both regret.

And he never should have said anything about Bobby. Dean had seemed better earlier. He'd seemed almost like himself. Sitting in front of the fire as Dean traded humorous stories with Tommy, Sam had found himself relaxed and calm because that was exactly how Dean had seemed. The memories of...other things, had faded into the background as he relived the stories Dean was telling.

The only reason he'd come inside was because he'd been so tired he couldn't stand sitting out there for even a minute longer. Desperately needing sleep, the _other_ memories had followed him and he hadn't even been able to lay down. He'd tried to read to distract himself, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn't concentrate on the book.

All he could think about was everything he'd been trying so hard to forget. All he could think about was what had slipped out when he'd been talking to Dean outside the clinic. This was exactly why he had told everyone to leave him alone in the first place. Because he'd been afraid something like that would slip out.

Now it had, and even after taking one of the pills that were supposed to help with the anxiety, Sam wasn't feeling any better.

He was feeling worse.

It had been bad enough knowing he'd been tainted by demon blood as a baby. He hadn't been given a choice about that, but he _had_ been given the choice to work with Ruby. Dean had given him plenty of warnings along the way. All of which he'd ignored. Sam had chosen to trust Ruby, to accept the darkness within, and that choice had led to everything that had happened since.

That decision, and everything that followed, had left him so much more unclean than he'd ever been before. The kind of unclean you couldn't wash away. He didn't think a spell or ritual or miracle cure existed to purify what was left of his soul.

Even so, when the tears began to fall in earnest, it wasn't because of any of that.

It was because Sam had finally remembered what had happened to Bobby and with those memories came a grief so intense it left him breathless.

Maybe it was just as well that Dean had left when he had. Dean had been picking up enough of his pieces lately. He didn't need to witness him falling apart like this. Sam knew Dean felt the loss as profoundly as he did. Probably even more.

But Dean's way of dealing with pain like this was through anger and alcohol. Sam hadn't been able to help him through his grief after their father had died and he knew he wouldn't be able to help his brother now.

So he sat there on the edge of the bed and handled his own grief the way he always had before.

Alone.

* * *

He wasn't running, but he wasn't exactly strolling, either, and soon the cheerful fire was left far behind him. Dean didn't know where he was going, but he was in a hurry to get there. Or, more accurately, he was in a hurry to get away from where he was. He couldn't possibly run fast enough to outrun the memories he wanted to forget, but maybe he could run fast enough to find a private place to have the inevitable nervous breakdown he was heading for at full tilt.

The sand under his feet had him stumbling with every step and wishing he'd headed toward the road rather than the beach. The sky was dark, but the moon was bright on the water and he knew anyone watching from any of the beach houses he was rushing past would have easily been able to see him. He needed to get off the beach. Three, or was it four? houses later, Dean turned to the left into the comforting conceal of some trees.

The further he walked, the thicker the woods became and the safer he felt. Tripping over roots and the uneven, rocky ground, Dean considered the fact that he should probably be paying more attention to where he was going. Or where he'd been. But it was too late for that now.

All semblance of rational thought had flown out of his head as soon as Sam had said _Bobby._ Dean had managed to think clearly enough to ensure the Penders were aware that he intended to return. Now all he was thinking was how much further he needed to go before he could open the long-awaited bottle of liquor.

As it turned out, the decision was taken out of his hands when he took a step wrong and his foot went out from under him. Throwing his weight to the other side didn't help and the very next thing he was aware of was the breath-stealing impact as he landed on his back on the ground. Blinking up at the dark sky above him, Dean sucked in a painful gasp.

He hadn't fallen far, but it had been far enough. Groaning, he pushed himself up on his elbows, surveying the area. The moonlight was blocked by the trees resulting in patchy areas of light amidst the shadows. He'd slipped down a small incline, thankfully missing a handful of good sized rocks to his left.

Still struggling for breath, Dean pushed himself to a sitting position. He pressed a hand to his coat pocket. The bottle was still intact. Cursing and clawing at the grass, he dragged himself forward until he was sitting back against a tree. The ground was damp and uneven and he was completely uncomfortable.

But he was alone.

 _Finally._

Dean pulled the bottle out and braced it against his leg as he tried to get the cap off. His hands were shaking and the process quickly became frustrating. By the time he had the cap off, he was ready to throw the bottle against the rocks.

Instead, he let the cap drop next to his leg as he lifted the bottle for a drink.

He knew it wasn't going to be pleasant, but the burn stole his breath faster and more completely than the fall had done. Coughing and choking, Dean pressed his free hand to his stomach until the sharp pain tamed to a more tolerable level. He stared at the bottle and tried to convince himself to take another drink. That first sip hadn't been enough to begin to give him the buzz he was hoping for. The buzz he _needed._

"Damnit, Sam," Dean muttered under his breath, letting his head thump back against the tree.

It was uncalled for and unfair, but he couldn't entirely contain the anger he was directing toward his brother. Sam didn't deserve it. Dean shook his head against the rough bark. Sam didn't deserve it and he didn't need this. Didn't need Dean losing his temper and storming out like a complete fool. Sam needed _him._

He cursed again, but the anger was quickly giving way to other emotions. Emotions that Dean would rather have avoided entirely. But, try as he might, he found himself unable to regain the bright fury that had brought him this far.

All he felt was grief.

Sam hadn't meant to hurt him. Dean knew it. Hadn't meant to cause an issue. Probably had just been hoping for some reassurance. Sam had asked about Bobby a few times before this, but he'd still been so confused that Dean had been able to brush over the subject without needing to address it. This time, though, Dean knew that Sam had wanted to _talk_ about it and Dean still wasn't ready for that.

Probably never would be.

Chancing another drink, Dean clenched his fist and gritted his teeth against the burn as the alcohol met whatever was left of his stomach lining. Eating hadn't been easy lately. Even the milder fare that Arla had been preparing left him with an uneasy stomach. Right now, Dean was beginning to think that, as much as he needed the drink, maybe he should stop while he was ahead.

Despite the pain, he was beginning to feel the effects of the whiskey. Clumsily, he set the bottle on the ground next to him and scrubbed a hand over his face. His thoughts started running in all directions.

Sam.

Bobby.

Dick Roman.

Cas.

Sam.

 _Bobby._

Dean thought it was raining at first. He looked up at the sky and, through the fog in his brain, realized it was clear. Rubbing a hand over his face again, he felt the moisture and shook his head; a touch of anger flaring again. What the hell was wrong with him? He was sitting in a ditch in the woods with a bottle of whiskey and tears running down his face. The brief flare of anger didn't stand a chance now that other emotions had taken over, though.

"Bobby," he whispered, eyes blurry as he stared into the darkness. "What'm I supposed to do now? Huh?"

There was no answer, of course, and he wiped his eyes again. His thoughts kept cycling. He missed Bobby. _Needed_ him. He and Sam were alone. Completely alone now and Dean didn't know how to handle it. How to go on fighting without Bobby. Without Cas.

It had been years and years since he and Sam had been truly on their own. Dean remembered all too well the painful search for their father. He remembered the hopelessness and guilt he'd felt when their father had died. It had taken a very long time to be able to get past that. But he'd eventually been able to put himself back together.

He wasn't sure he could do it again.

Bobby had been there for them every time they'd needed him. He'd always had the door open no matter what they'd needed or when they'd needed it. Bobby became more than their resource, their back-up. He'd become more than their protector, more than their friend.

He'd become a second father to them and Dean had never needed to hear it in words to know Bobby loved them as if they were his own sons. In many ways, Bobby had demonstrated that love more overtly than their father ever had. Dean had been devastated after his father's death.

Now he was crushed.

The weight of everything slammed into him and he could barely breathe. Even the thought of trying to drain the bottle of whiskey brought no true hope of relief. Because when he sobered up - no doubt throwing up blood again - he'd still be facing all the same issues.

Dick Roman.

Cas.

Sam.

He didn't know what to do about any of it.

"Something's wrong with Sam that I don't know how to fix." Dean's voice sounded broken and he wished he could shut up, but now that he'd started, he couldn't stop. He rested his head back against the tree and stared up at the sky. "I don't know if it can be fixed. It's been bad. Really bad. But what he told me today-"

Breaking off, his thoughts turned back to what Sam had revealed earlier outside the clinic. Dean knew how much it had killed his brother to say what he had and it still surprised him that Sam had said anything. And then he thought about what lay just under the surface of what little Sam had said. As if everything they'd gone through in the past few weeks hadn't been enough, that revelation had broken the last intact piece of his heart.

"I don't know how to help him with this. I don't know what to do, Bobby. We need help. _I_ need help."

Oh, how he needed help.

But Bobby wasn't here to help him anymore. Wasn't here to dig up the lore they needed. Wasn't here to bail them out of yet another mess. Wasn't here to lend his wisdom and expertise on a hunt. And he wasn't here to help him figure out how to help Sam.

He forced down a more generous swallow because he didn't care if he burned another hole in his stomach; he needed to burn away the memories. The alcohol burned his stomach and tears burned his eyes, running unhindered down his cheeks.

Dean wasn't sure if he was crying because of the pain in his stomach or the pain in his heart.

* * *

"I know he needs some space as much as Sam does," Arla said softly, looking for at least the tenth time in the direction Dean had gone. "But I still think you should-"

"I'll go look for him when he's been gone for a longer period of time, honey." Tommy held his watch up so he could see it in the light of the fire. "He's only been gone half an hour."

Arla turned back to the fire and sighed. He handed her the lightly browned marshmallow he'd just finished toasting for her. She took it even though he knew she wasn't in the mood anymore. They'd both been pleasantly surprised with how well things had gone this evening. Obviously, though, something had changed once the boys went back inside. They'd speculated some after Dean had walked away, but they really had no clue what had happened.

"He was upset, Tommy." Arla was still holding the marshmallow and still clearly not ready to move on from the topic. "Maybe I should-"  
"You should eat that marshmallow is what you should do," Tommy interrupted her before she could finish. He knew exactly what she was thinking and added, "Sam is fine."

Her jaw dropped and Tommy had a feeling she was never going to eat that marshmallow. She asked, "How would you know?"

Tommy pointed over his shoulder in the direction Dean had gone. "You think he would have walked away if there'd been anything seriously wrong with his brother right now?"

"Well, no, but-"

"But something happened. I know. Whatever it was, Dean felt like he needed to get away but he made sure we knew he was coming back. He could have walked out the front door if he'd wanted to avoid us. I think he wanted to make it clear for all of our sakes that he was coming back."

Arla nodded slowly and finally, _finally,_ ate the marshmallow. He'd worked hard to get it just the right shade of brown that she preferred. Grinning, he waited for the anticipated praise he would receive for his handiwork, but she just licked her fingers and stared at the fire. Tommy sighed, setting the bag of yet-to-be-toasted marshmallows aside.

"If you want to check on Sam, go ahead," he said, squeezing her hand.

"No, you're right." Arla nodded and smiled. "You are. I just thought things were a little better and now I'm not so sure."

"They are better, but better doesn't mean there will be no setbacks along the way."

He was hoping against hope that Dean had just slipped away to get some air and clear his head. Tommy didn't mention the nagging worry that was plaguing him. The worry that Dean had gone off to drink. They hadn't searched the boys' things; it wouldn't have been right to do so. There could have been more booze concealed in their gear than he'd realized. It wouldn't surprise him at all. But he wasn't bringing that up to Arla.

She was reaching past him for the bag of marshmallows and he could tell some of the tension had faded. Settling back in her chair, she handed him a marshmallow and said, "Maybe I shouldn't have asked Dean for more details earlier."

He put the marshmallow on a stick and said, "I don't think that had anything to do with him walking away now. He was fine until he went up to check on Sam. So either they got into an argument about something, or Dean just needed a break. He didn't have to answer you earlier. But he did."

Arla nodded, resting her head on the back of the chair and looking up at the stars. "I still have a hard time wrapping my head around...everything."

Tommy snorted. "You and me both. If I hadn't seen everything I'd seen back in Arizona that Christmas, I wouldn't believe any of it."

"But you do? Believe all of it?"

"Yes."

"Me too." Arla looked at him and there were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling. "I hate what they've gone through, and I don't know anything about their parents, but if I were their mother, I'd be so proud of them."

Tommy smiled too and handed her another perfectly toasted marshmallow. "Maybe you should tell them that before they leave."

"I will," Arla said, then added, "You are every bit the marshmallow making expert you have always been, my dear."

He settled back with a grin. Content that Arla seemed to have broken free from the worry and despair, Tommy stared into the fire and tried to pretend he was as relaxed as he appeared. Tried not to worry about what Dean was doing out there by himself

* * *

The tears had dried up leaving him numb and uncertain.

Dean was staring straight ahead even though he couldn't see anything in the darkness. His nose was running and he'd been coughing enough to leave him wishing the bottle of whiskey was a bottle of water. The cold was soaking into him from the damp ground and the aches in his shoulders and left hip were beginning to make a nuisance of themselves. The fall hadn't left him without a few new bruises but at least he hadn't landed on his head on the rocks.

The thought passed through his mind of what could have happened had he died out here tonight, face smashed against a rock in a ditch with a bottle of whiskey in his pocket. For one thing it would be pretty damned embarrassing. For another thing, it would probably kill Sam. Dean knew without a doubt that the Penders would do their best to take care of him. Probably try to adopt him like a stray puppy.

Numb as he was, he couldn't help but smile at the thought.

But the smile faded because he knew that however hard Arla and Tommy tried, they'd never be able to help Sam. Dean remembered his shock and initial fury when, after returning from hell, he'd found out Bobby had no clue where his brother was. Once he'd calmed down, he'd begun to realize that Sam didn't know how to live without him anymore than Dean had known how to live without Sam.

Sam might stay with the Penders for awhile, Dean figured. Then he'd take off and probably wind up in a ditch of his own somewhere. A chill shook Dean despite the jacket and he really needed to stop this line of thinking.

Shifting slightly, he grimaced when he leaned more heavily into the sore spot on his shoulder. Moving again, he settled into a more comfortable position - relatively speaking - and went back to feeling numb and uncertain.

He looked down at the bottle. It was barely touched and that wasn't at all what he'd intended when he'd stolen the thing. It wasn't what he'd intended when he'd walked out on his brother. He'd intended to drink the entire thing, consequences be damned.

Fumbling for the cap, Dean twisted it back on and set the bottle aside. He needed to stop. Needed to stop before it killed them both.

* * *

Sam woke up from a nightmare he couldn't clearly remember. From the way his skin was crawling, he knew which kind of nightmare it had been, though. Shivering, he reached for the covers to pull them around himself more securely. And then he sat up, bleary eyed and confused to discover he was lying on nothing but the bottom sheet. The covers, even the pillows, lay on the floor around the bed.

He braced his hands on the edge of the mattress until the chest pain and shortness of breath eased. He hurt everywhere and his muscles were tight. Peering at the clock, the numbers made no sense and didn't help anything. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he did remember Dean walking out of the room after he'd brought up Bobby.

The chest pain was better, but the pain in his heart wasn't.

Sam sighed and pushed himself off the edge of the bed until he was kneeling down and able to gather up the bedding and pillows from the floor. Flopping the mess up onto the bed, he stayed there for a moment, arms resting on the bed as he stared up at the collection of pills on the dresser. The Tylenol might have stood a chance in easing the headache if it hadn't been for the nightmare. And clearly that stupid pill for the anxiety had done a fat lot of good.

Rubbing his eyes and leaving his hands pressed to his head, Sam considered his next move. It was still dark so it wasn't morning yet and he probably should try for more sleep. He didn't feel like he'd slept at all, but the thought of closing his eyes and lying back down made him sick to his stomach. Lifting his head, he glanced at the open door. Maybe Dean had come back while he'd been asleep. Maybe Dean wasn't still angry with him for mentioning Bobby.

 _Maybe he wouldn't mind-_

He shook his head before he finished the thought. There was no way he was going to crawl into his brother's bed again. Bad enough that he'd done it last night. Dean hadn't teased him about it, hadn't said one word, but if he tried it again, Sam knew Dean would know exactly how screwed up he still was.

Sam was going to have to learn to deal with this on his own at some point. Might as well start now.

So he stood up and put the bed back into some semblance of order. The weight of the memories, the nightmares, made it difficult to breathe and the dark of the night had nothing on the blackness that wrapped around him like a shroud. The blackness of the pit. The blackness of utter, complete despair.

Sam backed away from the bed and, like something else was controlling him, he glanced at the pill bottles again. Dean trusted him enough to leave them where they were. Maybe he trusted him to make his own decisions about when to take them. He stared at them for a long time, considering. He was sick to death of being drugged up and feeling like his mind wasn't his own.

But his mind hadn't been his own in so long that Sam was beginning to wonder if it made a difference anyway. He walked over to the bottles and reached for the one containing the pills he didn't want to take but knew he needed. Holding the bottle toward the pale light from the window, Sam fought to make sense of the directions. The words were swimming like the words from the book had been but, after concentrating for far longer than should have been necessary, Sam deciphered the directions.

 _Take one to two tablets twice daily as needed._

One hadn't done anything. Not really. Sam opened the bottle and tapped one pill into his hand. It was so small. No wonder it hadn't worked. He dropped another one into his hand. There was a moment of incredible dread where he fought to keep breathing, but it passed more quickly than he'd expected. He twisted the cap back on the bottle and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the two pills.

And then it hit him. The thought of taking more than what was recommended hadn't

crossed his mind. This wasn't the devil telling him to overdose and end the pain. This was him making a conscious, _controlled,_ decision. A decision to do what he needed in order to sleep.

In order to get better.

A sense of peace fell over him. _He_ was in control this time. Sam took the pills with a sip of water and lay back down. He started pulling the covers up over himself, then stopped. Because he didn't need the blankets. So he left them to the side, settled under the sheet alone and, finally feeling warm, fell back to sleep.

* * *

Not for the first time, Dean regretted his decision to take a hike.

Because he was tired, in pain, and just tipsy enough to make the walk back to the Penders place twice as challenging as it should have been. He'd gotten twisted around in the woods and wandered in a circle before tripping and almost falling head first back into the same ditch. While mulling over how unfortunate that would have been, Dean got his directions sorted out and headed back toward the beach.

The campfire provided a helpful beacon. He glanced at his watch. About an hour and a half had passed since he'd walked away. Knowing he hadn't been gone too long went a long way in alleviating some of the gnawing worry. Dean had the bottle tucked in his pocket again and fully intended to shove it to the bottom of his bag again when he got upstairs. Drinking needed to be off the table for a few more days yet.

The closer he got to the fire, the more nervous he became. He'd honestly been hoping the Penders might have gone to bed. A little silly of him to expect since it wasn't even ten pm. Dean forced himself to calm down. He said he was going for a walk and he'd said he was coming back. And he had. They had no way of knowing he'd left in order to get drunk. He wasn't drunk so it all had worked out in the end.

Dean shook his head at his convoluted thoughts, then was close enough that he knew he was going to have to say something to the Penders. He needed to keep his distance because there was no way they wouldn't smell the whiskey if he got too close. But he also needed to be polite because he'd been rude earlier and he regretted it.

So when Tommy called out a greeting, Dean attempted a smile. He opened his mouth to respond and wound up coughing into his sleeve instead. Struggling to recover, he felt a hand on his back.

"Here, honey, take a sip," Arla was saying as she pressed a bottle of water into his hand.

He took a sip instead of pulling away because the need for water took top priority over the need to keep the whiskey a secret. Once the coughing died down and his throat didn't feel quite so raw, Dean nodded his thanks and Arla backed off. He couldn't tell if she noticed anything or not. Either way, nothing was said.

"Join us?" Tommy asked, motioning to the other chairs.

Dean shook his head. "Thanks. I should check on Sam."

"I just was up there," Arla said, sitting back down next to Tommy. She smiled, "He was sound asleep."

Relief swept over him and he was tempted to take Tommy up on the offer. He felt too keyed up to sleep. At the same time, though, he wasn't anywhere near mentally prepared to deal with trying to hold onto a conversation with anyone. The emotions that he'd spilled all over the woods were too close to the surface and the wrong word would probably have him losing it again.

"Thanks...uh, for checking...on him," Dean stumbled over the words like he'd stumbled over his own feet in the woods. "I'm...uh...gonna-"

He waved a hand over his shoulder in the vague direction of the house.

"Get some sleep, Dean," Arla said gently, without a hint of recrimination in her tone. "Let us know if you need anything."

Dean nodded.

The trip into the house and up the stairs left him breathless and considering that he might have been better off sleeping on the couch. He leaned heavily against the wall at the top of the stairs and wasn't sure if he was just tired or if he were putting off the inevitable. After a few steadying breaths, Dean pushed himself off the wall and crossed the remaining distance to the open door.

It wasn't that he didn't believe Arla, but he'd needed to confirm for himself. And, sure enough, Sam was sound asleep. Dean almost walked on. Instead, he walked into the room for a closer look because something seemed different.

The pale moonlight provided enough illumination for him to see that, not only was Sam sleeping, he was sleeping _well._

Arms outstretched, Sam was sprawled out taking up the whole bed. It was a surprise to see him so relaxed considering the way he'd been sleeping curled up in a ball almost constantly as of late. There wasn't a line of tension in his body.

He also was covered only with the sheet.

Dean frowned and took another step into the room. The window was still open and the last time he'd seen his brother, Sam had been buried under all the covers and acting like he was freezing. Something had changed since he'd been outside and Dean had no idea what it could have been. When he'd walked out, Sam had been upset. Now, it could have been any typical night in any typical motel room. Dean should have been happy, and, in some way he probably was.

Mostly he was confused, though.

It was an unexpected turn of events. One that he hadn't been prepared for.

"Sam?" Dean whispered. He inched closer, but Sam didn't stir. Standing there proved to be too difficult and he cautiously eased down onto the edge of the mattress.

He wasn't sure why he'd called his name. Wasn't sure why he was taking a chance on waking his soundly sleeping brother. Wasn't sure what he was hoping would happen or what he was hoping _wouldn't_ happen. If he was being completely honest, Dean would have had to admit he'd needed to get closer. Because there had been a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach and he'd needed to confirm. Needed to be sure.

Sam was breathing.

Dean leaned forward, lightheaded with relief. Resting his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, he whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Sammy."

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, he had a crick in his neck, a backache, and a headache. Opening his eyes and finding his face mashed into the carpet, Dean shifted and decided he needed to add this latest bad decision to his ever-growing list of bad decisions. He shoved himself upright until he was leaning back against the wall. Drawing his knees up, Dean rested his arms on them and rubbed his eyes then his stiff neck.

"Why'd you sleep on th'floor?"

Dean blinked in surprise at the sound of his brother's sleepy voice. He should've expected that question. Looking up at the bed, he shrugged. "I was tired."

Sam stared at him for a long moment, then closed his eyes.

"How long've you been awake?" Dean asked, his voice raw from disuse and last night's bad decision.

"I don't know." Sam's voice wasn't any stronger or less chewed up than his was.

Dean studied him in the early morning light. Sam was lying on his side, flat on the bed and, even if he was talking, seemed mostly asleep.

"Time's it?" he mumbled.

"After seven." Dean glanced at his watch, then yawned. "Too early."

He leaned his head back against the wall. Sam didn't move or open his eyes again. Dean pressed his fingers against his temples and took a moment to, yet again, regret those three sips of whiskey he'd taken the previous night. It hadn't been much, but it had been enough.

"You gotta stop."

Sam's whispered words drew his attention back to the present. Heart pounding uncomfortably, Dean stared at his brother. _He does know. He probably did feel that bottle in my pocket,_ Dean thought, trying to come up with a defense.

Rather than start an argument, Dean simply said, "I know."

This time Sam looked at him and Dean could tell he was trying to decide whether he believed him or not. Sam didn't say anything else and Dean figured it was time he got off the floor and got them both some food.

"You hungry?"

Unsurprisingly, Sam shook his head.

"Well you need to eat." Dean didn't move. "I can go get something, but-"

"Later."

"What?"

"Later."

Dean took a slow breath and said, "Why not now?"

"I can't...just...not now."

"Why?"

"I just need to sleep it off."

Now Dean was confused. He frowned, "Sleep what off?"

Sam lowered his gaze and said, "The pills."

For a moment, Dean's brain froze. He got the wheels grinding again and tried to figure out how long the stupid pill from last night should linger in his system. The one he took last night shouldn't still be affecting him, right?

"I should have told you," Sam interrupted his thoughts.

"What? Told me what?"

"About the pills."

Dean felt a little uneasy with the way Sam kept saying 'pills.' He'd only given him one last

night and his gaze quickly went to the bottles on the dresser. All of a sudden he wished he'd counted them last night. The uneasy feeling increased, but he told himself to calm down because obviously Sam was fine if he was talking to him.

So, trying to maintain his calm, Dean asked, "Did you need to take some more pills?"

"Yeah."

Dean hated himself a little for not paying more attention. For walking out the previous night

instead of being there when Sam needed him. The knot in his stomach tightened when he realized Sam might have come looking for him when he'd been out drinking in the woods.

"Did you come look for me?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

"I didn't want to bother you." Sam shook his head and looked away again. "Sorry. I know I should have-"

Realizing Sam had misinterpreted his question, Dean decided it was time to confront this head on because apparently everything he'd said the other night hadn't convinced Sam. "Sam you don't have to come get my permission if you need to take a damned pill, ok?"

His words clearly had shocked Sam, but he didn't say anything.

"Obviously you needed one so you took one-"

"Two."

"Fine. Two." Dean wondered if he should ask for more details but let it pass because that

wasn't really the point. "If you need 'em take 'em. It's not forever."

Sam seemed doubtful.

"Did they help?"

"Yeah."

"Ok then. How you feelin' now?"

"Hungover."

Dean smiled slightly, but his amusement didn't last long because he was also slightly hungover and he knew he shouldn't be. "You gonna be ok if I go get myself something to eat?"

"Not planning to go anywhere for awhile."

Dean snorted. From the way he was lying there bonelessly on the bed, it didn't look like he was going anywhere. Ever. Dean asked, "Need anything?"

"Some better luck would be nice."

It might have been funny to other people, but it wasn't funny to Dean and he was pretty sure it wasn't funny to Sam either. Because they seriously needed a turn of good luck.

He pushed himself to his feet and said, "You need to drink something at least."

Sam groaned and shifted until his face was pressed against his arm.

Dean ignored him. He grabbed the water bottle and tapped it against Sam's shoulder. "Non-negotiable."

He heard Sam mumbling something into the sheets. Dean laughed a little, prodded him harder with the water bottle, and said, "I know you hate me. Sit up."

It took more effort than it should have, but Sam started pushing himself upright. He looked dizzy and like he was going to go straight back down, but he fought through it and held out a hand.

"You're gonna wind up wearing it," Dean warned, holding the bottle back.

"Give it to me," Sam said, and he didn't sound sleepy anymore. He sounded grumpy.

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother's neverending stubbornness but gave him the bottle. Sam took a drink, and Dean caught the bottle just before it hit the carpet. He set it aside as Sam flopped down against the bed, eyes closed. Grabbing a pillow, Dean attempted to be gentle, but mostly just shoved at Sam's head until he lifted it enough for Dean to slide the pillow under him.

He lingered for a few more moments, until he was certain that Sam had fallen back to sleep, then he left the room.

* * *

 **What did you think? Hope you enjoyed! Chapter 36 will post mid-week if all goes according to plan. Ch 36 and 37 are complete and just being edited. Chapter 38 is rapidly turning into chapter 38 AND chapter 39. :) I tell ya...I'd probably have three novels published by now if I'd known getting up at 0400 every morning to write would increase my productivity so exponentially! :D It's certainly good for getting these chapters to you sooner!**

 **And...the time has come to forewarn you all...this story is drawing to a close. :( I kind of can't believe it myself! I make no guarantees, but it's honestly looking like chapter 40 will be the final chapter (how very OCD of me). I can't predict because I'm not a neat, orderly outliner. But from how I've got the rest of the story sketched out, I'm thinking 40 will be the conclusion.**

 **Hope you have a great week ahead! :)**


	36. Chapter 36

**Good morning! I've got a cup of tea and I'm off to work on chapter 39 but thought I'd go ahead and post this first.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 36**_

Tommy looked up from his cup of coffee at the sound of footsteps. Dean was walking toward him, hand raised in greeting. The kid's hair was damp and he looked suspiciously like he was suffering from a hangover.

"Morning, Dean. Breakfast?"

"Sure."

"Have a seat." Tommy stood up, motioning to a chair.

"Can I get some of that coffee?" Dean asked as he sat down.

Tommy wanted to say yes, but he'd been duly informed by Arla that coffee was off limits for another few days. "How about some water?"

"Fine." Dean gave up without a fight, put his arms on the table and rested his head on them.

Smiling to himself at the pitiful sight, Tommy walked into the kitchen to fill up a plate. Arla had made a breakfast casserole and he served up a good sized portion. Stabbing a fork into it, he grabbed a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water. Setting the plate and glass in front of Dean, Tommy went back for the bottle of aspirin for good measure.

He shook out three and dropped them into Dean's expectant hand. By the time Tommy had sat down, Dean still hadn't straightened. Sipping his coffee, Tommy waited. He didn't know for sure, and he hadn't voiced his suspicions to Arla, but after looking at him now, he was almost entirely certain that Dean had been out drinking last night.

But he wasn't going to bring it up because, if he _had_ been drinking again, Dean was paying the price already and the last thing the kid needed was to be beat down any more than he already was.

Dean's fingers closed around the tablets and, after another few seconds, he pushed himself upright and swallowed the pills down with a drink of water. Settling back in the chair, Dean grabbed the fork and looked down at the plate. Tommy let him eat a few bites in peace before speaking up.

"You boys sleep alright?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded, waving the fork in the general direction of the staircase. "Think he's gonna be out for awhile yet."

"He needs the sleep."

Dean stabbed another forkful of casserole but didn't reply. Tommy studied him and wondered if he should suggest going to pick up the car or not. Dean looked bad, but he also looked like he needed something to do or his nerves were going to get the better of him. Even though he'd told Steve he'd pick it up tomorrow, Tommy was rethinking that plan. After the way yesterday had gone, he felt like enough progress had been made that it was time for another gentle nudge in the healing process.

"This is really good." Dean interrupted his thoughts and stabbed another bite of the casserole.

"One of my favorites."

Dean nodded and returned his attention to his breakfast. Tommy finished his cup of coffee, then asked, "You feel up to taking a drive?"

Straightening, Dean ran a hand through his hair; expression curious. "Sure. Why?"

"Need to pick up a car for a friend. Needs some work."

"The project you mentioned."

"Yes."

"What kind of car?"

"1978 Pacer." Tommy smiled at the look of disgust on Dean's face. He hadn't expected that Dean would be thrilled with the kind of car. "I know. Not my first choice either."

Dean snorted and said, "Well you saw the piece of trash we were drivin' so I guess I shouldn't mock your friend's choice."

Tommy could tell the teasing tone belied Dean's annoyance with the car he'd been driving. Taking a chance and hoping for the best, Tommy asked, "You boys still have that Impala?"

A shadow passed over Dean's expression and Tommy wondered if he'd made a mistake in asking. But then Dean's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. "We've got her. Tucked up in a safe place. Can't be drivin' her right now. Little too flashy."

"She is that," Tommy said, and the ghost of a smile on Dean's face developed into a real smile. "I figured you'd be able to help me put the Pacer back in working order since you've kept that beauty running for all these years."

"Been a long road," Dean admitted. "Rebuilt her from the frame up half a year after we met you guys in fact."

"What happened?" Tommy figured if Dean had opened the door, he might as well walk through it and see how far he would get.

"T-boned by an eighteen-wheeler," Dean said, tracing a finger around the edge of his glass.

Tommy's jaw dropped. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Guessing this hadn't been an ordinary accident, Tommy asked, "Something did it to you, right? It wasn't random."

"Not random," Dean acknowledged, sitting back and rubbing his eyes. "It was a demon. We'd all been beat to hell trying to get away from one of them earlier that day. Sam was driving us to the hospital when it happened."

"All?"

"Dad was with us. It was bad. I almost died. Dad did."

There was more to that story, Tommy could tell from the haunted expression in Dean's eyes. But it wasn't a topic he was going to pursue. He thought back to the Christmas when they'd first met the boys. They'd been searching for their father and the longing, the _need,_ had been palpable in both of them. For them to lose him like that - he shook his head. Tommy could tell the pain from that loss still weighed on Dean. It had been years, but pain like that didn't ever go completely away.

Dean continued softly, "Wasn't his fault, but Sam blamed himself for it. Took a long time after I put the car back together before he drove her again."

"You get the demon?"

"We got 'em."

"Good." Tommy wanted to hear more, but he decided to stop while he was ahead.

He considered getting another cup of coffee while Dean finished his breakfast, but decided he'd refrain since Dean couldn't have a cup. They sat in silence for a few minutes, while Dean finished. He looked up and back toward the kitchen so Tommy took his plate and filled it up again. Sitting back down, Tommy saw the front door open. Arla caught sight of him and smiled, heading their way. She'd been outside weeding the neglected flower garden in the front yard.

"Good morning!" Arla called out as she came closer.

Dean looked up with a smile and Tommy blessed her good timing.

"Good morning," Dean said, pointing at his plate. The second serving of casserole was already half eaten. "Thanks for breakfast."

"You're very welcome." Arla leaned a hip against the table and Tommy could tell she was assessing Dean. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Dean gave her a thumbs up.

Arla smiled, but Tommy knew she wasn't convinced. They'd sat out around the fire almost until eleven the previous night. When they'd come inside, Arla had tip-toed upstairs to check on the boys. He knew it had bothered her to no end to leave Dean sleeping undisturbed on the floor in Sam's room. But she had, because both of them had been sleeping so soundly that she hadn't been able to break the spell.

"Did you get enough to eat, hon?" Arla asked, a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder.

"I'm good. Thanks."

"If you get hungry later, help yourself," Arla said, taking a seat at the end of the table. "How's Sam doing?"

Dean shrugged. "Alright I guess. Sleeping. He took more of those pills last night."

"Which pills?"

"The ones to help with the anxiety."

"Did you-"

"He asked me for one the first time." Dean sighed. "I guess he took a couple more when I was...out."

Tommy could easily sense Dean's trepidation. Probably was beating himself up for taking that walk.

Arla smiled a little and said, "It's a good sign, Dean."

"You think so?" Uncertainty filled his eyes.

"Yes. I know it doesn't necessarily feel like it, but it is. If he felt comfortable enough to take those pills when he knew he needed to, I'd call that progress." Arla patted his hand. "No one wants him to need to be taking medications, but the fact he took them on his own tells me he's starting to cope."

Tommy watched the emotions in Dean's eyes and was relieved when it looked like the kid accepted what Arla was saying.

After a moment, Dean asked, "You'll keep an eye on him?"

"Of course," Arla said, then frowned.

Tommy filled in the blank quickly. "We're going to go pick up the car. Start workin' on it."

Arla looked at him and for a moment, they argued back and forth with nothing but their eyes. He knew she didn't think Dean was ready. But Tommy knew the kid needed to get busy with something before he drove himself - and probably his brother - crazy. Arla surrendered with a nod.

She said, "I'll get the cupcakes ready."

"Cupcakes?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

Tommy laughed. "The guy we're picking the car up from? He's Arla's cousin and he always wants cupcakes when we're in town."

Dean smiled, then inquired politely if there would be any cupcakes left.

Arla had the cupcakes packaged up in a box in no time and Dean accepted the responsibility of carrying it. He'd been assured that Arla still had enough cupcakes left for all of them later. Tommy was just as happy to hear that as Dean was.

As he drove to Steve's place, Tommy tried to decide how to handle things. He needed to sign the papers, of course, but if he did that with Dean standing there, he'd probably have some questions. In the end, it didn't matter because when they arrived, Dean declined to come in with him. Whether he was feeling worse, or just not feeling sociable, Tommy didn't know. But it worked out in the long run.

Paperwork signed, cupcakes delivered, Tommy headed back to the car with a bag of parts. He'd discussed the repairs with Steve. Nothing too complicated which was good. Just some minor repairs that he hoped would occupy Dean's mind and hands for several hours.

He hopped back into the car and held out the keys to the Pacer.

"Care to drive?"

Dean smiled and took the keys.

* * *

Sam woke up in a cold sweat, breaths coming sharp and short as if he'd run a sprint. The room spun as he pushed himself upright and away from the nightmare. He fought with the covers he was trapped in and tamped down on the panic that threatened to suck him under again.

Once he was upright and had his feet on the ground, his head cleared to a point and Sam didn't even need to make a conscious effort at remembering where he was. Lately, waking up almost always required a few moments of reorientation. This time, though, it wasn't necessary. He remembered where he was and why.

Catching his breath and breathing out a shaky sigh of relief, Sam scrubbed at his eyes and wished the extra sleep had done more than it had. Because he _still_ wanted to sleep. And he _still_ had a headache. What was the point of sleeping and taking pills if nothing worked anyway?

Sam leaned sideways against the headboard and pressed his hands to his face. He hated the spaced out feeling the meds gave him. Hated seeing the world through a distorted haze. As if he wasn't even really part of what was happening around him. For too long he'd felt like a passenger in his own head. The agony of the headache didn't seem like such a bad thing when compared with the feeling of emptiness that stretched through him when the meds took over.

It felt like he was missing something. Like something had gotten lost along the way. Technically, he knew it wasn't true. All the missing parts were back together, but he still felt like something was wrong. There had been a weight pressing down on him for so long, and now that it was gone, he felt strangely empty.

The more he thought about it, the more he noticed how much he was shaking. Pressing his hands to the bed, Sam forced his eyes open. Forced himself to slow his breathing and look around the room. Forced himself to return his attention to the present.

Sam looked at the clock. Almost two in the afternoon. As sleepy as he'd been earlier when Dean had made him drink some water, he wasn't surprised he'd slept so late. His thoughts turned to the events of the previous evening. Sitting around the campfire had been enjoyable to a point, but keeping up with the conversation had been beyond him. It had taken all his concentration to eat.

And just like that, his scattered thoughts all melded into one specific thought.

 _I'm hungry._

Suddenly, that was the only thing that mattered. He pushed himself to his feet and, even though the movement aggravated his headache, the dizziness wasn't as bad as it had been earlier. Yawning, he decided, as hungry as he was, he should start with a shower before going downstairs. He was still half asleep and had a feeling he'd fall down the stairs if he tried them right now.

By the time he'd finished in the shower and was getting dressed, he finally felt more awake. More alive. Of course, being more awake only made his mind work double time.

Like a blinding flash of lightning, Sam remembered talking to Dean outside the clinic the day before. He remembered what he'd said. His fingers tightened on the door frame as his knees threatened to buckle.

Maybe Dean hadn't understood. After all, he hadn't been very specific. Hadn't come right out and said-

"No." Sam's voice sounded too loud in the quiet room.

He needed to stop thinking about it. But, as usual, his mind seemed to belong to someone else and didn't do anything he suggested. All he could think about was the look in Dean's eyes. The way his face had gone stark white.

 _He knows._

It made Sam strongly reconsider his aversion to the pills. Maybe he should take a few more and sleep until everything went away. Squeezing his eyes closed, he had to put his other hand out against the door frame to keep from spinning into oblivion. Everything was hot and cold all at the same time and he thought he might be sick.

" _You're having panic attacks."_

Arla's gentle voice broke through the thunder in his head. Sam felt sharp pain in his chest and pressed a hand to his ribs, forcing himself to slow his breathing. He thought about what Arla had said. How sure she'd sounded. How _understanding_ she'd sounded. There had been no judgment, no pity, no disgust. Slowly, the hyperventilating eased and the dark spots cleared.

Panic attacks.

Sam stared at the ground, unpacking the phrase. Panic attacks. Was that what it was? Well, obviously. Arla was a doctor. She knew about stuff like this. And he knew it too. Hadn't wanted to admit it, but he'd known. It felt stupid, somehow, to be having panic attacks.

But it made sense.

Sam sucked in a shaky breath and straightened. The pull of his injured ribs hurt, so he kept his hand pressed against it. Pain still had a way of grounding him, he realized. Not certain if that were a good thing or not, Sam considered his next move.

Go downstairs and find a way to deal with being around everyone, or stay here and hide. Potentially give in to the horrible, conflicting, desire to drug himself back to sleep. In the end, it was the smell of something wonderful that decided it for him.

Once he was downstairs, he was hungry enough that even the thought of having to face up to his brother and both of the Penders at once didn't seem like a problem. He just needed something to eat. There was no one around that he could see so he headed straight for the kitchen and found a tray of cooling cookies on the counter.

He had no idea what kind they were, but they smelled amazing. Sam took a quick look around and still didn't see anyone. So he stepped closer to the cookies and stared down at two dozen warm bits of heaven.

He picked one up and it might have been the best thing he'd ever tasted.

Sam finished it in three bites and was on his second when he heard a door closing somewhere behind him. Stiffening and feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, Sam turned around and looked for signs of movement. After another minute, he saw Arla walking around a corner with a laundry basket in her hands. She saw him immediately and the smile that lit her face was so much like sunshine that Sam smiled back without thinking about it.

"Hi, Sam," she said as she walked over. Setting the laundry basket on the kitchen table, she remained a comfortable few feet away and asked, "How are the cookies?"

"Great."

He couldn't believe he'd answered her with his mouth full. Dean wasn't opposed to talking with his mouth full, but he usually had better table manners than his brother did. Sam finished chewing as Arla walked past him to the kitchen.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Sure. Coffee?"

Arla paused and studied him. It looked like she was fighting a battle within herself. She nodded and said, "A small cup. And you have a glass of water, too. Deal?"

At this moment, he would have done almost anything for a cup of coffee. He hadn't really considered it before, but maybe part of his ongoing issue with the persistent headache was because he was missing his daily dose of caffeine. It wasn't surprising considering how many pots of coffee he'd been going through there at the end in a desperate bid to avoid sleeping. Not to mention the energy drinks and caffeine pills he'd been sneaking without his brother's knowledge.

So he said, "Deal."

Arla smiled again and motioned for him to sit down at the bar. Half a minute later, a glass of cold water appeared in front of him. He finished half the glass while he munched on a third cookie. When the coffee was presented to him, Sam wasn't sure life could possibly get better.

He took a sip, then looked over at Arla curiously when she laughed.

She shook her head, but her smile was still bright as she said, "I'm sorry, Sam. You just looked so happy about that coffee. I thought I was the only one who was that happy about coffee."

Sam took another sip in case the cup mysteriously were to disappear. He held it between both hands and said, "I can't remember the last time I had any coffee."

It must have been before the psych hospital. Because there hadn't been any coffee there even though he'd asked. Many times.

And just like that, the cookies and coffee weren't settling too well on his stomach. He swallowed back the nausea, knowing Arla was aware of his discomfort. It was frustrating when even the simplest of conversations could be full of landmines that he didn't expect and couldn't stop from blowing up in his face.

Attempting to distract himself, Sam asked, "Where's Dean?"

"He and Tommy are outside working on a car."

He took another sip of coffee and, although it didn't taste anywhere near as wonderful as it had a minute ago, it went down easier. Glancing at Arla from the corner of his eye, he saw that she had a cup of coffee in her own hand and was sipping it as she looked somewhere beyond him. Sam relaxed to a degree when he realized she wasn't staring at him.

For a few minutes, they were silent, then Arla asked, "Are you still hungry, Sam? Do you want anything else to eat?"

His appetite had pretty much disappeared with the first memory of the hospital. Even the cookies that had smelled, and tasted, so amazing now seemed like poison. He shook his head and lifted the cup again to avoid needing to reply.

Arla stood there for another minute, savoring her coffee. Then she walked over to the table and started folding towels. He watched her for a moment, then turned away. It was a relief that she wasn't pushing him. Wasn't asking him how he felt, how he'd slept. Wasn't trying to get him to talk. Wasn't trying to get him to do anything.

He basked in the comfortable silence until he'd finished the cup of coffee, then shifted until he was facing Arla. She looked up at him, but didn't stop folding the towels. He met her gaze, then stared at the pile of laundry. There was a part of him that wanted to leave the silence as it was. To not break it or disturb the way he felt almost normal for the first time in forever.

But he needed to ask while he had the chance. So he looked back up at Arla. "How do you think he's doing?"

Arla put a folded towel on the stack and picked up another one but didn't start folding it.

She studied him, but he could tell she wasn't assessing his fitness for her reply or his reasons for asking. After a moment, she said softly, "I'm not entirely sure."

He didn't like that answer, but was beyond relieved that she was being honest with him.

Sam nodded slowly, considering her words and the depth of meaning behind them. He kept his voice low as he said, "I don't…I have no idea what to do to help him."

"I know. And that's a scary place to be." Arla folded the towel in her hands, then walked closer. Leaning against the counter, she said, "He's very worried about you—"

"He's always worried about me." The words sounded bitter to his own ears. It wasn't like he didn't think Dean had good cause to be worried about him this time. He was just sick of always being the root of his brother's troubles.

Arla's lips twisted up in a slight smile and she said, "I can tell. I know it must be difficult. Must feel a bit like he's smothering you. I think there's more to it, though."

Sam nodded. There was _so_ much more to it. More than she could ever imagine. More than he would ever be able to tell. Taking his own myriad of issues out of the picture, Sam knew exactly what Dean's two biggest issues were.

Cas and Bobby.

"We lost—" It was as if his throat was closing up around the words. These particular memories were some of the foggiest and most disconcerting. They pressed in on him whenever his mind turned to them, but nothing was clear and that worried him.

"Take your time," Arla's soft voice drew his attention.

He hadn't even noticed her move, but now she had a cup in her hand and he realized there was a fresh cup on the counter next to his elbow. Sam reached for the cup, hating how badly his hand was shaking. He didn't dare pick it up, just wrapped his hands around it and allowed the warmth to soak into his skin. Focusing on the heat, Sam waited until some of the fog lifted.

Staring into the cup, he whispered, "Bobby died."

It wasn't the first time he'd said it aloud, and he knew it was true, but it still sounded wrong. There was a part of his brain that - even now - refused to connect the actual dots between _Bobby_ and _dead._ Sam knew it was probably an unconscious coping mechanism.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Sam."

He looked up at Arla. It had never really crossed his mind to think about it that way. The filter of Dean's all-consuming anger and grief over Bobby's death shadowed everything and Sam had trouble even thinking about it in terms of his own loss. Yes, he'd grieved over Bobby last night when he'd finally been able to remember what had happened without the filter of hallucinations and fear. But his loss paled in comparison to Dean's.

"Can I ask who Bobby was?"

"He was our friend." The word seemed so inadequate for who Bobby had been to them but Sam couldn't elaborate. The pressure was back on his chest.

"I can tell how much he meant to both of you."

Sam nodded. He thought back to when their father had died. "Dean's not great with…dealing. And…he's—"

"He's angry," Arla finished for him.

"Yes." _About so many things._

"He's angry with another friend of yours. Cas?" Arla asked, adding another folded towel to the pile.

Another complicated topic that Sam wasn't entirely sure he could handle discussing at the moment. Dean's feelings were clear. He was furious. Sam's feelings on the issue weren't as cut and dry.

"Cas screwed up. Big time." Sam smiled a little. "He thought he was doing the right thing so he and I have that in common. Dean doesn't see it that way."

Arla nodded slowly. She took a sip of her coffee, then said, "Dean told us that Cas hurt you."

It surprised him to hear that Dean had said anything about Cas. Sam wondered how to explain it all with the minimum detail necessary. After a minute, he said, "He did. And it's been really difficult to deal with. But he also helped fix things. Dean's still so angry that he doesn't see it that way. I think I'm having an easier time forgiving Cas than Dean is because I've screwed up so much that...I don't know. I guess I can relate to Cas' mistakes more than Dean can. Cas thought he was doing the right thing. A long time ago, I thought the same thing and-"

He trailed off. He'd already told her that he'd set the devil free. He wasn't in the mood to rehash that topic.

Arla seemed to sense his reluctance to continue. "It's ok, Sam."

Relieved, Sam took a sip of coffee. He looked back at the cookies and realized his appetite had returned. Arla was watching him closely and, when he asked about lunch, she looked positively thrilled. A plate appeared in front of him in no time.

She folded the laundry and talked about her grandkids while he ate and he'd finished everything she'd put in front of him before it occurred to him that he hadn't thought once about checking the food for maggots.

* * *

Dean wiped the sweat from his brow and stared down at the engine, listening carefully. It sounded better. He held a thumb up over the hood of the car and Tommy shut it down. They'd been working on the car for several hours now and he didn't think it was going to take much longer. While he didn't find much to like about the maroon Pacer, there was some satisfaction in hearing it purr like a kitten.

"What do you think?" Tommy asked, standing next to him in front of the car.

"We're getting there."

For a few minutes, they conferred about what their next step would be. Dean glanced at his watch while Tommy looked over the car manual. It was almost three. He frowned and debated taking a break.

Arla had come out just before noon to herd them inside for lunch and he'd checked on Sam at that point, found him still comfortably snoozing and let him be. But, nearly three hours later, he was beginning to wonder if he should be getting worried about this extended nap.

And then he turned at the sound of Arla's laughter.

Dean's eyebrows rose in surprise when he saw Sam holding the door open for Arla. She had two tall glasses of water in her hands and Sam had a plate of cookies in his free hand.

"Snack time!" Tommy grinned like he was five years old and hurried over to relieve Sam of the plate of cookies.

"Don't hog them all. Some of those are for Dean," Arla chided him as she handed Dean a glass.

It all seemed so normal, so natural. Sam was looking under the hood of the car while Tommy updated him and Arla on the progress of their repairs. Dean stood there, sweat trailing down his back, cold glass of water in his hand and stared in wonder at the sight of his brother conversing easily with both of the Penders. Arla caught him staring and winked at him.

Dean shook himself out of his shock and took a sip of the water trying to disguise the way he was still staring at his brother. If Sam noticed, he didn't give any indication. When he heard Arla say something about taking a walk, Dean set the glass on the workbench behind him and tuned back into the conversation.

"Go for it," Tommy was saying. "It's a beautiful day. We've got more to do before we're done here."

Arla gave Tommy a quick kiss. "We'll be back in a bit."

Dean looked from her to Sam. He wasn't sure what to make of any of this, but Sam was smiling and looked rested and at ease. He had a ways to go before the circles under his eyes would fade away, and he still looked too pale and too thin, but he looked better than he had in a very, very long time.

"Have fun," Sam said, as he walked by and followed Arla down the driveway.

Dean wordlessly watched him go.

"Dean?"

"Huh?" He turned at the sound of Tommy's voice.

"You alright?"

"Yeah." Dean shook his head and said, "Of all the things I expected would happen today, that was not one of them."

Tommy laughed. "I'll admit I wasn't expecting it, either."

"I didn't think he was even going to get out of bed."

And he really hadn't. Considering everything that had happened yesterday and the fact that Sam had taken extra pills - even if it had been of his own volition - Dean had expected today to be a rough day. He'd never expected it to be a _good_ day.

"He's getting better, Dean." Tommy gripped his shoulder.

Dean nodded then pressed his free hand to his head. It was difficult to believe. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was... _everything_. Either way, Dean felt his legs going out from under him. Tommy's steadying hand under his elbow helped slow his descent to the pavement. Settling against the side of the car, Dean accepted the offered glass of water when it appeared in front of his eyes. He took a sip, then allowed Tommy to take the glass again.

"How're you doing, son?" Tommy was kneeling next to him, and Dean was just too tired to even feel embarrassed over the way he'd very nearly passed out.

"Ok."

"Think maybe you overdid it."

Resting his head against the car door, Dean smiled wryly and said, "Possibly."

Tommy nodded. "Give yourself a minute to recover, then I think you probably should take a break."

"Good call." Dean closed his eyes, grateful that Arla and Sam hadn't been present for his dizzy spell.

He listened as Tommy puttered around with the tools and car parts. After a few minutes, Dean forced his eyes open again, realizing how tired he was. He'd slept well. Considering he'd fallen asleep on the floor, he'd actually slept soundly. But maybe he should have followed Sam's example and taken a long nap.

"Dean?"

Tommy was crouched down in front of him again, looking concerned.

"I'm good." Dean accepted his hand and got to his feet without incident.

"Take the water with you and go lay down for awhile," Tommy instructed, holding the door open and then steering him in the direction of the stairs.

Dean took the water and gave passing thought to just collapsing on the couch. But a bed sounded amazing so he went upstairs and even bypassed the shower although he felt sweaty and nasty. The closer he got to the bed, the less anything else mattered. He drained half the glass, set it on the nightstand and flopped face first onto the mattress.

And then he had to shift until he was propped up on some of the pillows because that position wasn't very good given the fact his nose was still congested. Of course, once he sat up, his nose started running. Irritated, he sat up and grabbed a tissue. Once he'd solved that particular issue, he lay back against the pillow and sleep claimed him in a heartbeat.

* * *

Arla chose their route carefully. She didn't want to go too far, yet she didn't want to make Sam feel like she was purposefully limiting him. In the end, her concern probably hadn't been necessary. Sam didn't look like he was paying any attention to their route.

Or anything else for that matter.

When she'd suggested taking a walk after he'd finished off his second plate of taco salad, he'd looked like she'd offered him the moon. Knowing he was finally in the place where he would be up to taking a walk, Arla had been pleased when he showed signs of interest. He was nowhere near ready to take a run, but he was ready to take the first steps toward that goal.

After making sure her husband and his brother had fresh water and a snack, they'd headed off together. They'd been walking for fifteen minutes and neither of them had said a single word. Arla knew Sam was expending all of his energy simply putting one foot in front of the other and she didn't want to tax him further by forcing him to keep up with a conversation.

The day was pleasantly warm with a cool breeze, but she was keeping a close eye on her companion. He was moving easily, but she could tell he wasn't all the way with her. The further they got from the house, the more she felt like he was shutting down.

Not sure what was going on inside his head, Arla turned right when they came to the next side road. They could keep going on this one for awhile or they could veer back toward the house if it seemed necessary. Sam was slowing down, but he was still walking so she let him set the pace.

A few minutes further on, they reached the place where the road curved around the lake. Sam paused and stared out at the water. Arla waited for a moment, but when he didn't move, she walked ahead and sat down in the grass. A moment later, he joined her. Arla kept her eyes on the lake and waited some more. She was willing to sit there as long as he needed. After a minute or two, he cleared his throat and spoke up.

"I don't feel right."

Alarmed, she turned to him. "Sam? What's wrong?"

"It's...not like that." He gave her an embarrassed smile that faded rapidly. "I'm fine. I just...I don't feel like the same person I was. Before…him. Before the things...he did."

Arla nodded, and held her tongue. And her breath.

"I don't feel right. I'm not sure I ever will."

His concern was understandable although, logically, Arla knew a big part of the problem was that he still needed more time to recover; more time to put his life back together. More time and more rest were what he needed in order to heal. But trying to explain it in a way that might be comforting to a man who'd lost so much didn't seem possible.

Anything she could think of to say would be nothing more than empty platitudes.

"He took everything from me," Sam said; his eyes suddenly bright with anger. And fear. "Everything. How can I ever be myself...get back to… _normal._..when I can't forget that he -"

Sam choked on whatever he'd been about to say and pressed a hand over his eyes. Arla's heart broke. She thought about all the signs, the indications, that she'd picked up on along the way. Putting two and two together, Arla felt certain she knew exactly what he'd been about to say. And she was completely at a loss.

It had been obvious to her from the start that what he'd experienced had taken everything from him. Now she knew the depth of his loss and felt completely inadequate to even begin to help. Because he'd lost more than time. More than his freedom. More than his life. His sense of self had been taken.

Fixing something like that took more than any medicine she could prescribe, took more than any treatment she could possibly order.

So far out of her element, for one split second, Arla selfishly wished he hadn't - however inadvertently - revealed this to her. She wished he'd told his brother or the doctor at the Urgent Care center, or someone, _anyone_ , else. Her thoughts wandered back to the way the color had drained out of Dean's face when he and Sam had been talking outside the clinic yesterday.

Arla wondered if he had told Dean.

"I'm sorry," Sam interrupted her thoughts.

She looked over at him. He was back to staring at the lake, his expression carefully neutral.

"I shouldn't have-"

"Yes, you should have." This time she was the one interrupting him. He glanced at her in surprise and Arla went on, "You don't have to keep all of this to yourself, Sam. I'm glad you spoke up."

He looked uncomfortable and she couldn't blame him, but she didn't want this to end up sending him ten steps backward.

"I know how difficult all of this has been for you; how difficult it is for you to talk about it. I'm not going to lie to you. You're going to struggle for a long time. What you went through isn't something that heals easily. But do you realize how far you've already come?"

Sam sighed, staring out at the lake. He didn't respond.

"You don't have to do everything all at once. One thing at a time is fine." She nudged him gently in the side. "The fact that you're sitting here with me right now tells me that you're healing."

"Sometimes it doesn't feel like it," he said softly.

"I know."

"It was better...earlier. I don't even know why...what made me think...about it."

"And that's very natural." Arla smiled when he looked her way. She went on, "You'll probably experience flashbacks and nightmares for a long time. Memories will pop up at the most unexpected times. What you need to remember when those things happen is that it is _normal_. It's part of the process. You're already handling things better than you were when I first found you boys at that cabin. Just because you have bad moments, or bad days, doesn't mean you're not getting better."

Sam nodded, gaze returning to the lake.

Arla looked out at the water too, and wondered if she were saying the right things. After a moment, Sam leaned forward and lowered his head to rest on his arms. Hoping she wasn't overstepping her boundaries, Arla cautiously put her arm around his shoulders. He didn't flinch or pull away.

Instead, he leaned closer to her and whispered, "Thank you."

Tears in her eyes, Arla held him a little tighter. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

* * *

 **Things are starting to look up (finally). ;) next chapter coming up this weekend. thanks for reading and have a wonderful day!**


	37. Chapter 37

**Happy Wednesday! Here is a chapter with (almost) no angst! What?!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 37**_

Dean woke up the way he usually did after sleeping during the day: groggy, overtired, and regretting ever lying down in the first place. Pushing himself up, he realized he hadn't moved more than an inch from where he'd initially flopped down. Obviously, he'd needed the sleep. The clock display read a bit after six and Dean's first thought was how Sam and Arla's walk had gone.

His second thought was to go hunt for food.

Since his stomach was growling at the second thought and his head was worrying about his brother, Dean pushed himself to his feet. The other bedroom was empty and he hoped it was a good sign. A gentle rain was falling and he wondered if they'd made it back before the rain started. Reaching the main floor, he saw Tommy standing by the table, a handful of papers in his hand.

Turning, Tommy waved him over and Dean realized he was wearing a nice shirt and dress slacks. Eyebrows raised, Dean joined him at the table and asked, "What's the occasion?"

"Hot date." Tommy grinned.

Dean smiled. "Really?"

"Yep." Tommy set the papers down and Dean realized they were take-out menus. Tommy set a credit card down on top of the menus, then said, "You boys get the house to yourselves this evening. Dinner of your choice."

There was no point in saying no. Dean didn't have any cash left and he doubted Sam had much if any. So he nodded. "Thanks. Where-"

"Sleeping on the couch."

Dean looked toward the living room, then back at Tommy. "I was going to ask where you were taking Arla."

"No, you weren't." Tommy smiled knowingly.

"Fine. You're right." Dean rolled his eyes. "How long's he been sleeping?"

"Not long."

"Was he ok?"

"Tired. Struggling with the headache again, but he was ok. I think the walk did him some good."

Feeling a little better, Dean asked, "So where are you guys headed tonight?"

"Dinner then dancing, but she doesn't know that yet. It's a surprise," Tommy said, tucking his shirt in and looking very pleased with himself. He paused and asked, "You think you boys will-"

"We'll be fine."

"Well you better promise Arla six ways to Sunday you'll call if you need something," Tommy teased. "It took me an hour to convince her to go out with me in the first place. I told her we were just gonna grab dinner someplace nice and she finally agreed."

Dean smiled as Tommy adjusted his shirt and ran a hand over his head.

"Getting ready is a lot easier these days," Tommy said with a smirk. "Arla doesn't have to spend ten minutes trying to tame the mess of my hair anymore."

"What about a mess?"

They both turned at the sound of Arla's voice. She walked into the kitchen with a questioning expression. Dean's jaw dropped. Wearing a light blue, sleeveless, summer dress and heels, Arla looked like a different person. Her hair was curled and he'd never seen her so dressed up. She was putting her earrings in as she walked, but paused when she realized they were both staring at her.

"What's wrong?" Arla glanced down, then put a hand to her hair. "What are you staring at?"

"You, babe." Tommy crossed the space and pulled her into a hug, leaning down for a kiss.

Arla kissed him, then pushed him away. "Stop that. Does my hair look ok?"

"It looks great," Dean said at the exact same time as Tommy.

They exchanged a glance and Arla laughed. "Well, if you both think so, I guess it'll do."

"Oh, it'll do." Tommy snuck in another kiss, then said, "You look gorgeous."

"Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Pender." Arla patted him on the cheek, then turned her attention to Dean. "How are you feeling?"

He gave her a thumbs up. "I'm good."

Arla was analyzing him carefully, but seemed to believe him. "Good. Now, we're going out for awhile, but you-"

"Go have fun," Dean interrupted her. "We'll be fine. Take-out and a movie. We'll call if we need something, but if you don't hear anything, assume we fell asleep. Because we probably did."

Arla smiled as she put her second earring in. "That's not a bad thing."

"I know."

Tommy grabbed a set of keys from the counter and said, "I'm going to go pull the car up to the front door."

"Ok, I'll look for an umbrella and meet you there."

Dean hovered by the table as Arla dug through a closet. It was a little ridiculous, he knew, but there was a part of him that _did_ feel nervous at the thought of not having her nearby. He knew she expected a call if there were an issue and would no doubt come running back, but he hated the thought of bothering them on their night out. Heaven knew Tommy and Arla had already lost most of their vacation thanks to them.

 _It's fine,_ Dean told himself. There was no reason he should need to bother them. He was fine and Sam was doing better and-

"Wow."

This time it was Sam's voice that had him turning in surprise. His brother had walked into the room at the same instant Arla had stepped back from the closet. Dean couldn't help but smile. Sam was disheveled and didn't look completely awake, but he hadn't taken his eyes off Arla since he'd walked into the room.

"You look beautiful," Sam continued softly, hovering a few feet away.

"Thank you," Arla said, turning a little red at the compliment. Embarrassed or not, she was still a doctor and Dean could tell she was assessing Sam. From her expression, he decided he didn't need to be worried. A horn honked outside and Arla said, "That'll be my man."

Dean pointed at the door. "Go. Have fun and don't worry about us."

Arla rolled her eyes, but hurried toward the door.

Once the door closed behind her, Dean was ready to focus on the food. He started looking through the menus, then realized Sam was still staring in the direction Arla had gone.

Frowning, Dean asked, "What's up? You alright?"

"Do you think Mom and Dad would have been like them?"

Dean had to take a slow breath. It was a little much to be thinking about Mom and Dad at a time like this, when the pain from Bobby's death was still so overwhelming. But he nodded and said, "I'd like to think so."

"Me too."

Hoping that was the end of the discussion, Dean asked, "What do you want for dinner?"

It took another minute before Sam finally turned and looked at him. He seemed confused. "What?"

"What do you want to eat?" Dean told himself to be patient because he wasn't at his best when he first woke up and it was clear Sam wasn't either.

Sam stared down at the menus and shrugged. "Chinese?"

"Works for me," Dean said without hesitation.

Honestly, he couldn't care less what they ordered; all he cared about was the fact that Sam had made the choice. They looked the menu over and Dean realized he wasn't the only one choosing a less exciting dish than his usual. The way his stomach felt, he was all for plain and bland and Sam didn't seem to be in the mood for anything spicy either.

Once they'd made their decisions, Dean reached for the phone to place the order. He watched as Sam walked back into the living room and couldn't help but smile. It felt like one more thing had fallen back into place when Sam hollered for extra egg rolls.

* * *

"Was this not one of my best ideas?"

"Top ten at least," Arla said, head resting against his chest as they danced. She shifted and looked up at him. "I needed this."

Tommy kissed her forehead and said, "I think we both did. And I think it was the best for the boys to have a little time to themselves too."

"I know you're right, but I still feel bad for leaving them."

"They can handle a few hours on their own." As the song ended, Tommy asked, "You are preparing yourself for when they leave, right?"

Arla didn't want to think about it. And, until just now, she'd been doing a fairly good job of ignoring the subject. She didn't want the boys to have to return to the life that had nearly destroyed them; the life that probably would some day. Tommy tugged on her hand and she realized a new song had started up. Allowing him to lead, Arla's heart wasn't quite in it anymore.

"I'm aware they aren't staying forever," Arla finally answered. The lights, the music, the happy faces around them at the VFW dance all faded to a blur. It seemed so unimportant now. "I'm _trying_ to accept the fact they'll be going right back to fighting the things that have nearly killed them."

"Yes, they will."

For the rest of the song, they fell silent. When the music changed to something much more upbeat, Arla was ready to walk away. But Tommy wouldn't let her and, for a moment, they faced off on the dance floor.

"I'm really not interested in-"

"I know," Tommy interrupted her. "But you're going to anyway. Because it's vacation for one thing. For another thing? Those boys saved our town, saved our lives, all those years ago."

"What's your point?"

"My point is, we're alive because they're out there fighting monsters. They don't do what they do for fame or because it pays the bills. They do it so the people they help - like us - can go out dancing and enjoy themselves. So the people they help can keep _living_ their lives. I don't like it anymore than you do, but I feel a whole lot better sleeping at night knowing _someone_ out there not only knows what goes bump in the night, but knows how to kill it."

Arla sighed, seeing - but not necessarily liking - his point. The crowd around them was getting more rambunctious as the song went on and they were still standing in the middle of the mess. Of all the times to have this conversation.

"It's not what we want for them," Tommy continued, "but it's their job. It's their life. And they need to get back out there doing it."

"You're very annoying when you're right." Arla smiled a little as they started dancing again.

"So you think I'm right?"

"I think you're annoying."

He guided her across the dance floor and said, "I thought I was a genius."

"That too."

By the end of the song, they'd finally gotten into it and she couldn't deny she was having fun. The fun continued the rest of the evening. When the band finished its final set, though, Arla was remembering why she'd given up wearing heels for the most part. She limped out to the car, each step more painful than the last. Once she was in the car, she tossed the shoes into the back seat and put her feet up on the dashboard with a groan.

Tommy started the car and smirked, "I told you to wear your tennis shoes."

"I'm not wearing tennis shoes out dancing."

"We could've kept dancing longer if you had."

"The band was packing up their instruments, dear."

"Well, we probably could find a nightclub."

"In Cedrina, Indiana?" Arla laughed, glancing at her watch. It was much later than she'd realized. "Tommy, it's almost eleven!"

"Remember when we thought eleven was early?"

Arla rested her head on the seat back. "That was a long time ago, wasn't it?"

"Seems like it now, doesn't it?"

"Mmhm."

"Let's get ice cream!"

"The shops are all closed." Arla smiled at his childlike enthusiasm.

"The 24 hour drugstore isn't," Tommy said, clearly thrilled he'd found a loophole. "Tub of Blue Moon and we go eat it at the scenic overlook?"

"Chocolate chip and you have a deal."

"Perfect." Tommy nodded, turning left and heading toward the other end of town. "After the ice cream, you wanna do a midnight movie?"

Arla slid closer to him and whispered, "I can think of other things I'd rather do."

"Such as?"

"You."

"Oh boy." Tommy grinned. "Skip the ice cream?"

"Ice cream first." Arla winked. "You later."

* * *

Sam heard the back door open and braced himself; fingers tightening around the notebook he'd brought out with him. It was just after one am and he knew Dean wasn't going to be happy to find him outside at this hour. Tilting his head, he looked over his shoulder and saw it was Tommy, not Dean, coming toward him. Turning back to the fire, he didn't try to hide the notebook. Tommy'd already seen it so there was no point.

"Hey, Sam," Tommy greeted as he walked over. "Ok if I join you?"

"Sure."

Tommy sat down and briefly glanced his way before looking at the fire. "Nice fire."

"Had to raid your supply under the porch for some dry wood."

"Glad you found it. You boys have a good evening?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled. It _had_ been a good evening. An evening that had felt about as close to normal as anything had recently. "You?"

Tommy grinned. "We had a great time."

"Speaking of great times, I think Dean was having a great time helping you with the car earlier."

"He did seem to be getting into it, didn't he?"

Sam nodded. "He doesn't do well with sitting around. Or being sick."

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed." Tommy laughed, leaning forward and adding another log to the fire.

Running his fingers along the side of the notebook, Sam watched the sparks fly. "He doesn't like it when he can't control things."

"I don't think most of us do."

And it was the truth.

Sam didn't like it either and every single thing in his life had been out of control for so long that it still felt like a miracle when he was able to make a choice for himself. Dean wouldn't like it if he knew Sam hadn't gone to bed and he _really_ wouldn't like it if he knew what was in the notebook.

But Sam needed to be out here right now.

What he planned to do with the notebook was something he could control. Could choose to do. After dinner, he'd made Dean go upstairs. Ensured he had gotten into bed and would be staying put. And then Sam had gone to the other bedroom and dug out the notebook and all the crumpled pages from the bottom of his backpack.

Taking the whole mess downstairs, he'd sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that Dean would have vetoed. But he'd wanted a cup of coffee even if it had been late at night. So he'd made a cup and it had felt amazing to do what he wanted without any comments from his overprotective brother or the peanut gallery in his head.

The fact that he would need to get used to the silence would have made him laugh back when the devil had been driving him up a wall with the never ending chatter. The honest truth, though, was the silence was one of the things he was still struggling with the most.

Sam looked down at the notebook and thought about how he'd flattened out the pages and read them all as he drank the coffee. It had been painful. And terrifying. Now that he was thinking clearly, Sam was in shock at what he'd written. How screwed up he'd been. The notebook was an awful reminder of the harsh reality of how close, how very close, he'd been to the edge. It bothered _him_ to think about it and the last thing they needed right now was for Dean to find the notebook.

Glancing over at Tommy, Sam said, "I needed to come out here tonight."

Tommy turned and held his gaze, waiting.

"I need to put this behind me." Sam looked down at the notebook.

"I think that's a good idea, Sam."

He looked back up at Tommy. "Why'd you come out here?"

"I saw you." Tommy smiled. "I didn't want you to have to be alone."

"Thanks," Sam said, tapping a finger against the notebook. "Dean doesn't need to know about this."

Tommy studied him for a long moment, then said, "No. He doesn't. But he needs to know if you ever feel like that again."

"It wasn't me." Sam leaned forward and dropped the notebook into the flames. "Not really."

"Are you sure?"

Sam watched the flames lick the edges of the notebook. Thought about the words he'd written. It had been him; some of it. But not all of it. Not the parts that Tommy was talking about. _Not really,_ he repeated to himself. He sat back in the chair and smiled at Tommy. "I'm sure."

"Good." Tommy nodded and he looked as relieved as Sam felt.

Glancing back at the fire, they fell silent for a few minutes. Sam thought about how much the Penders had been doing for them both. How much they'd helped in so many ways. He turned to Tommy and tried to put his gratitude into words.

"I wanted to thank you. For a lot of stuff, but thanks for...being here. Those first couple of nights...I'm not sure...if you hadn't-" Sam floundered. Words seemed inadequate. "-and you didn't make me feel...I just felt real. When you talked to me. I didn't feel broken."

Tommy nodded. "I never went through anything like what you did, Sam, but I do remember feeling broken. It takes time to get over stuff like this. And it takes time to begin to accept that the damage done to you wasn't your fault. No matter what you did or didn't do. No matter what bad - or good - choices you made that might have set the course for how things turned out. What happened to you wasn't your fault and it wasn't because you deserved it."

Sam took a shaky breath and closed his eyes to hold back the tears. So many bad choices had been along the path that led to what happened. Decisions he could never undo. Choices he couldn't unmake. He'd spent so much time trying to figure out where he'd first gone wrong and he still wasn't sure.

Sam wanted to believe Tommy. He really did.

But Tommy couldn't understand. It _was_ Sam's fault. Maybe not all of it, but most of it. And he _did_ deserve it. At least some of it. All he could hope now was that he'd learned from his mistakes. That the future would be different.

That someday, maybe, he could find a way to redeem himself. To fix what was still broken inside him and make things right.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam didn't open his eyes. He focused on controlling his breathing.

Tommy's voice was soft, understanding. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I'm trying to."

* * *

"How was he?"

"He was alright," Tommy said, pulling up the covers.

He'd come back inside to find Arla asleep but, by the time he'd finished getting ready for bed, she'd been awake and waiting for answers. He lay back against the pillow and wrapped his arm around her shoulders as she rested her head against his chest.

Once they were settled and comfortable, Arla asked, "He was alright? Sitting outside alone at one in the morning doesn't sound alright to me."

Tommy stared up at the ceiling and took a deep breath as he considered her words and what had just happened outside. After a moment, he said, "It's going to take a long time for him to work through everything."

"But you think he's-"

"I think he's working hard to get better. He's finally rested and recovered enough to maintain momentum. Before he couldn't even keep his head above water. Now, he's gaining ground."

Arla nodded, but asked, "So why was he out there?"

"Because he was taking another step forward." Tommy explained what had happened outside. "Sam threw that notebook into the fire to release some of the burden he's been carrying around."

"You think that was a good thing? For him to keep it from Dean?"

Tommy had wrestled with that same issue when he'd first found out Dean wasn't aware of the notebook. And he'd wrestled with it briefly tonight. But things had changed quite a bit since the day he himself had inadvertently discovered the notebook.

"I think Dean knows most of what Sam had written anyway," Tommy said after some consideration. "It's not necessary for him to need to go through the pain of reading it."

"I suppose you're right. I can't help but worry about him, though. About _both_ of them."

Tommy was worried about both of them, too.

Arla snuggled closer to him and asked, "You didn't let him stay outside did you?"

"No. I think he might have been planning to, though. Something tells me he's not going to sleep well tonight, but he came inside with me."

"Good."

Tommy yawned. He closed his eyes and said, "I'm thinking we should take a vacation."

"I thought this was our vacation."

"Has it felt like a vacation to you?"

Arla laughed softly. "Not even a little. Well, maybe a little. Tonight was fun."

"Yes, it was." Tommy kissed her and said, "But I think on our next vacation we should do a lot more sleeping."

"Mmmhmm."

"Good night, babe," Tommy whispered, but she was already asleep.

It didn't take him very long to follow her example.

* * *

It was a little after seven in the morning when Dean began to wake up. A little after eight before he was all the way awake, out of bed and dressed. He automatically checked the other bedroom, found it empty, and headed downstairs. The house was quiet, but he caught sight of Tommy sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. He had his back to Dean and was staring out the window.

Once he was closer, and Dean could see what he was staring at, he sighed and asked, "He been out there long?"

"Not quite an hour," Tommy said softly. "Come sit down and have something to drink."

"I should probably-"

"Sit down and have something to drink. I've been keeping an eye on him. He's fine."

Dean wasn't so sure, but sat down and looked at the glass of water Tommy placed in front of him. "Trade this for a cup of coffee?"

Tommy shook his head. "Sorry. The ban hasn't been lifted."

Sighing, Dean's gaze wandered back to the window and he asked, "Did he eat anything?"

"No."

"Great." Shaking his head, he turned back to Tommy.

"It's ok, Dean. He's not always going to feel like eating right away. And he's not always going to want company. He's not always going to want to talk."

Dean nodded. He knew Tommy was right, but it didn't make him feel better. Yesterday had been such a good day and he found himself disappointed at the mere hint that today might not be as good.

"How about you eat something and give him a little more time, then you can go check on him?"

"Fine."

Tommy smiled and went to the refrigerator. A few minutes later, Dean was staring down at a plate of food he had no interest in eating. But he ate it anyway because he knew Tommy wasn't going to let him go anywhere if he didn't. And he'd have trouble convincing Sam to eat anything if he himself hadn't even tried.

"Sam said you boys had a good evening last night."

Dean nodded. "Chinese and a few hours of classic Westerns? What could be better?"

It had been a good evening, in all honesty. They'd eaten their fill of the food, managed to have a few conversations along the way, and didn't get into a single fight. They also hadn't talked about anything of any consequence, but maybe that hadn't been such a bad thing after all.

For the next few minutes, Dean chatted with Tommy about how their dinner and dancing date had gone. It was good to hear that they had gone out and had a good time. Made Dean feel a little better about imposing on them. Finishing everything on his plate, Dean took the pills that Tommy set out, then steeled himself for what was to come. He walked outside, not sure what to expect.

Sam was wearing his jacket, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs by the fire pit and Dean wished he'd thought to grab his own jacket. It was a bit nippy. Then he thought about the fact he never had taken the bottle out of his pocket to hide in the bottom of his bag. Maybe it was just as well he'd left the jacket where it was.

Dean sat down in the chair next to his brother and looked over at him, not caring whether Sam liked it or not. From his first glance, Dean could tell Sam hadn't slept well at all. Which was disappointing, but not entirely a shock. Wondering if Sam had taken any pills, Dean decided not to ask that particular question. At least not yet.

"Hey," Sam said softly, his glance brief before he went back to staring at the lake.

"Morning."

And that was the sum total of their conversation for the next five minutes. Dean spent those five minutes trying to think of something, anything, to say. But he didn't know what to say. Didn't know how this whole process was supposed to work. He was still muddling through all of that when Sam broke the silence.

"You sleep ok?"

"Yeah. You?"

Sam shook his head against the back of the chair as if it were too heavy to lift.

"Why?" It was a dumb question and Dean regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth.

"Didn't think that through, did you?" Sam asked, and at least there was some amusement in his tone.

"Not really."

Sam sighed, staring up at the trees above them. "It...wasn't as bad."

Sensing his brother wasn't finished, Dean didn't rush him.

"It's getting better," Sam said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

"Is it?" Dean asked, keeping his eyes on the lake and wondering why he could never learn to keep his mouth shut.

This time the pause went on a lot longer and Dean started mentally kicking himself all over again.

Then Sam said, "It's getting better."

Even though he had repeated the same statement, he sounded like he believed it this time and Dean could breathe a little easier. His thoughts returned to his main purpose in coming outside: getting Sam to go back and eat something. Ok, so his main purpose had been to make sure his brother was doing alright and _then_ get him to eat something. Dean was trying to think of a tactful way to get that accomplished when Sam spoke up again.

"I feel like I could fall asleep again already. How crazy is that?"

"It's not crazy. If you need to sleep, sleep. Don't push yourself."

Sam shot him a glare. "How long's it been? Huh? How long have we already been here, eating their food, taking up their time?"

"Hey, don't even go there." Dean held up a hand. "I don't like it any more than you do, but the fact is we needed this. Needed a place just to deal with everything. To recover. And we're stayin' here till we're both on our feet again. Got it?"

"Yeah."

Dean should have felt more victorious about winning that argument, but he didn't. "Good. How about you come back inside and eat something?"

"Not hungry."

Dean sighed even though he tried not to. "Sam-"

"Just...back off, will you?"

He didn't sound angry; he sounded like he was pleading. Dean didn't know what to think. Had he done more damage than he'd realized simply by coming outside? The need to press for details overcame him, but Dean knew he had to keep his mouth shut or risk destroying every bit of progress Sam had been making. If he needed a little more time to himself, then Dean was going to give it to him.

Pushing himself forward in the chair, Dean said, "Ok."

He was surprised when, as he started to stand up, Sam asked, "Can you stay?"

Dean froze, staring at his brother. Sam shot him one quick glance, then looked away. Dean settled back in the chair, stunned to silence. He thought he'd been dismissed, but obviously not. So he sat there, waiting and wondering.

Without knowing what was going on, he was at a loss to even attempt to help. But then, as he sat there staring at the lake, Dean realized maybe this was exactly what he needed to do to help. Maybe this was one of those things they didn't solve with words.

Ten minutes passed in silence. Dean was keeping his gaze carefully on the water, not his brother. The sun warmed his chilled skin and he had to admit that, if he closed his eyes, he'd probably fall asleep. Sleep hadn't come easily for him the previous night, although it seemed that he'd slept better than Sam had.

He'd fallen asleep just after ten, right in the middle of an exciting stagecoach robbery. Despite the action and the gunfire on the television, he'd been out like a light. At the time, he hadn't been pleased when Sam had shook him awake and prodded him until he'd climbed the stairs and fallen into bed. He'd felt perfectly content to stay on the couch.

Once he'd hit the mattress, though, the couch didn't seem anywhere near as comfortable. More asleep than awake, he hadn't moved as Sam had walked out. As tired as he'd felt, his mind wouldn't settle back down for quite awhile. Now, he wished he'd paid more attention to his wandering, worrying mind and forced himself to get up and make sure Sam had gone to bed. To make sure Sam had been able to sleep.

"I didn't take anything last night," Sam said suddenly.

"What?" Dean floundered for a minute. Obviously, he'd been a little closer to falling asleep just now than he'd realized. Blinking and trying to shake himself out of the stupor, he looked at Sam.

"The pills. I know you were going to ask."

Dean couldn't deny that he'd been wondering about the pills.

"I'm sick of taking them."

It wasn't exactly breaking news. Dean opened his mouth to attempt to say something supportive, but clearly Sam intended to handle the conversation by himself.

"I'm going to get some coffee."

 _Or maybe he just intended to end the conversation._ Dean frowned, more than a little thrown by what had just happened. Sam was on his feet and about to walk away and Dean almost let the subject go. Almost let _him_ go. But he couldn't.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam didn't turn to look at him, but he stopped moving.

He had no idea what to say. At. All. Dean stared at his brother's tense shoulders and told himself this was all part of the process. Just another step along the way.

"Let's go get you some coffee," Dean said, pushing himself up. Sam turned and shot him a confused look.

It might not have been the right thing to say, but it was the best thing he'd been able to come up with. Sam had brought up the pills, but he didn't want to talk about them. Not really. Dean could tell he was feeling defensive and when either of them were on the defensive, conversations typically didn't go well. Dean hadn't started anything, so he could only guess that Sam was fighting _himself_ on the issue of the pills more than he was fighting anyone else.

Avoidance wasn't ideal, but they'd made a lifelong habit of it, so why stop now?

The tactic seemed to leave Sam floundering this time. Maybe he wanted to fight about something. Maybe he was just looking for something, _anything,_ to go back to normal. So Dean elbowed Sam in the ribs (the uninjured ones) as he walked by.

"What are you standing there for? You think I'm going to bring you a cup on a silver tray?"

He didn't stop moving or look back, but he heard a familiar huff of annoyance behind him and Dean couldn't help but smirk as he led the way back to the house.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed! Ch 38, 39, 40 are all finished and in revision stage. Ch 41 is in progress but it's going slow mostly because I'm dreading actually writing the scene where the boys leave. :( Ch 42 is actually longer than 41 right now heehee. And...in case you couldn't tell by that...um this story isn't over at ch 40. sorry!**

 **Have a wonderful rest of your week. :)**


	38. Chapter 38

**Happy Valentine's Day! If you have a special someone, I hope you have a wonderful day with them! For the rest of us...hey chocolate is on sale! :D And there's always fanfiction... ;)**

 **I was going to post this tomorrow but then thought, why not today? So here's a Valentine's Day present for all of you! It won't cause tooth decay or diabetes. ;) Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 38**_

Sam waited until Tommy and Arla had left the house before he sought out his brother.

All in all, it had been a good day. After choking down breakfast, he'd spent the rest of the morning sitting outside alone and trying to read the book Dean had given him. More time was lost staring at the pages than actually reading the words, but he'd managed to finish one chapter by lunch time so at least that was some sort of progress.

Everyone had left him alone which surprised him. Once he'd blabbed to his brother about not taking the pills, he'd expected a lecture. Or at least an argument. But Dean had surprised him by leaving the topic alone. In fact, everyone had been leaving _all_ the topics alone.

After what he'd said to Dean outside the clinic and what he'd said to Arla yesterday on their walk, Sam hadn't expected for the seemingly never-ending press for him to talk to dissipate. Maybe they were leaving him alone because he finally had talked.

And he _had_ talked.

A fact that still left him stunned. Despite his best efforts at control, he'd talked and, just like he'd been afraid of, more came out than he ever wanted anyone to know. He wasn't convinced talking had helped, but Sam was at least starting to feel more like himself.

Tommy had brought him out a sandwich for lunch and revealed that, while he'd been sitting outside trying to read, his brother had been sacked out on the couch napping. It amused him, but also showed how screwed up their lives had become - and how sick Dean still was - if he was napping. Even so, it had also been a relief. The fact that his brother could (finally) leave him alone and unsupervised for a few hours, and get the rest he himself so desperately needed, made Sam think Dean was starting to get better, too.

After lunch, he and Arla had taken another walk that had almost turned into something resembling jogging. It was discouraging how out of shape he was but it felt amazing to get back to doing something normal. They came back to find Tommy and Dean with their heads under the hood of the Pacer.

Sam had considered taking a nap of his own. He was exhausted enough at this point. But when Arla had mentioned she and Tommy were going to go to a movie, he'd declined the invitation to join them, and decided it was time to talk to his brother.

About Cas.

He was probably making a very bad decision. Mentioning Bobby certainly had been, but Sam couldn't wait any longer.

All this time, his worry over the angel had been shoved to the bottom of all the other crap that was happening. Of course, it helped that he was finally able to form a complete thought these days. He might stand a chance of holding a conversation with his brother now, even if it turned into a shouting match.

So he took a deep breath, briefly reconsidered abandoning this foolishness and taking a nap instead, and walked out into the garage. Dean was still under the hood which was encouraging. If he was busy, this conversation might go better. And, hey, in the grand scheme of things, Sam thought this still might be a safer topic to discuss rather than Dean's drinking habits. He was feeling better, yes, but nowhere near better enough to have a hope of withstanding his brother's anger if he dared bring that up.

His anger over Cas was still likely to kill one or both of them.

"Hey," Dean looked up. He wiped a hand across his face and offered a tentative smile. "How are...how was the run?"

Sam smiled and hoped some day they wouldn't be walking on eggshells around each other. He could tell Dean wanted to ask how he was doing, but was carefully sidestepping that question. Which was just as well because being asked that question still made Sam want to punch a wall.

"It wasn't a run. Fast walking at the best," Sam said, leaning a hip against the car. "I'm not sure it even qualified as jogging."

"It's a start." And the expression in Dean's eyes told Sam that his brother was probably more excited about the accomplishment then he was.

"Yeah," Sam relented, because Dean had a point. "It was good. Felt good."

Dean nodded, looking more pleased and less worried.

"How's the car?"

"She's coming along." Dean leaned back over the engine and started a five minute lecture on what had been wrong with the car and what was still wrong with the car and how much he didn't like AMC Pacers.

Since he had no grounds to disagree with all the reasons Dean thought Pacers sucked, Sam held his tongue and almost allowed himself to ignore the fact he'd come out to the garage for a reason. At least Dean was in a good mood. Clearly, spending all morning on the couch napping and then being waited on hand and foot by Arla (a scene Tommy had gleefully described to him), had done Dean a lot of good.

Having his hands covered in grease and working on a car also seemed to be helping.

Sam made a mental note to thank Tommy again for both his generosity and wisdom. There was no medicine in the world that would heal Dean as well as being busy and productive and fixing a car would. Dean still didn't know it, but when Tommy had brought him the sandwich, Sam had discovered the truth about the Pacer. It had blown him away, yet again, that there were people who were so generous.

People so interested in helping them.

"Earth to Sammy," Dean called, waving a greasy rag in front of his eyes.

Sam took a step back to avoid getting slapped in the face by the rag. Dean smacked him on the shoulder with it instead and grinned smugly before saying, "It occurs to me that you're not interested in power steering pumps."

"Oh?" Sam smiled.

"Yeah, something about the way your eyes glazed over when I started talking kind of gave it away." Dean wiggled his fingers in front of his eyes, then walked over to a low shelf where the tools were laid out. "So spit it out."

"Spit what out?" Sam hedged. _Damn, but that nap is sounding better by the second._

"Whatever it is that you came out here to say that I'm probably not going to want to hear or talk about," Dean said, walking back to the car and avoiding Sam's gaze.

There was a teasing element in Dean's tone, but the underlying tension came through loud and clear. Sam watched as Dean went back to doing whatever it was he was doing under the hood. Mouth dry, Sam realized he hadn't thought this through very far. He didn't know what he wanted to say or how to say it that wouldn't result in an explosion.

"Sam." Dean straightened and, instead of looking angry, he just looked tired. He rested a hand on the edge of the upraised hood and asked, "What's going on?"

"I think we should talk about Cas," Sam said in a rush, feeling breathless.

There was a flicker of something in Dean's eyes. Pain? Definitely. Anger? Absolutely. Betrayal and deep hurt mingled with everything else and Sam wanted to crawl into a hole. This might have been an even worse idea than bringing up Bobby.

Dean's expression went blank and he moved away to pick up a few tools on the floor. Tossing them into the toolbox, he asked, "Why would we need to talk about him?"

"Because Cas is our friend."

" _Was_ our friend. Pretty sure he stopped being our friend about the time he tried to kill us." A socket wrench hit the inside of the toolbox with more force that was necessary.

Sam was grateful the wrench had gone into the toolbox and not into his teeth. Everything in him was screaming _Retreat!_ but he kept going. "Dean, he was screwed up big time and-"

"And what, Sam?" Dean spun around, the anger he'd barely been keeping under the surface breaking through. "And what? Was a little foolish? Tried his best? He almost destroyed the world. The world we just barely had put back together again-"

"Because _I_ almost destroyed it," Sam interjected quietly, but either Dean hadn't heard him or didn't care.

"-and he turned around and tried to take it out again!"

"That wasn't his intention."

"I don't care what his intention was!"

Dean pitched a screwdriver at the toolbox and it hit the wall instead, rolling toward the open door of the garage. Sam fought the urge to duck when Dean turned his way.

"I tried to tell him. Tried to get him to listen but he didn't. What kind of guy doesn't listen to their friend trying to tell them they're making a huge mistake?"

Sam couldn't help but smile a little. He understood Dean's point, but at the same time he saw the other side of it. "Dean, I'm your _brother_ and I didn't listen to you about Ruby and look where that got us."

"That's different." A breaker bar landed with a thud in the toolbox, but Dean seemed to be running out of steam.

"How is it different? It's not different. What Cas did, and what I did, was done with good intentions gone wrong." Sam knew he still wasn't getting through, even though it all seemed so logical to him. Dean was turned away, hands braced on the tool bench. Trying again, Sam said, "He's still our friend."

Dean's shoulders tightened, but he remained still. Sam waited. He didn't know what else to say. He hated what Cas had done and hated what it had done to his brother.

"So you just want me to forgive and forget, is that it?" Dean asked, his voice rough and low. He turned around and the anger didn't seem to have diminished any. "Forgive and forget and move on? That's what you want, huh? Let me ask you this. You forgiven and forgotten anything yet?"

"Yes." Sam nodded. "I have."

Dean must not have been expecting that answer. Or maybe he had, but not expected the sincerity in Sam's voice. Either way, he seemed stunned. After a moment, he shook his head and his shoulders slumped.

"You know what? I get what you're trying to say. Him thinking he was somehow saving the world...that's one thing. But...what he did to you?" Dean was speaking more softly, although the intensity had not changed. "That's different. He didn't do that because it was important in his insane plan. You know why he did that?"

"Yeah. He did it so we'd back off him and-"

"He did it because he knew it was the one thing that would make _me_ back off," Dean said, shaking his head. The emotions were bright in his eyes as he went on, "Bobby knew it. Said as much to me. Cas _wanted_ me to fall apart. He broke that wall not just to hurt you, but to hurt me. We just got you back, Sammy. Cas knew what breaking that wall would mean. He was all hopped up and had super-mojo and he could've just, I don't know, locked us up somewhere and we'd never have been able to break out. But he didn't. He didn't."

Sam studied his brother and knew he wasn't the only one damaged by what he'd gone through. Cas was their friend and his betrayal had been painful. Watching him turn against them and start tearing the world apart had been a nightmare. But Sam knew it was the more personal betrayal that had cut Dean far deeper. Much as he could relate to Cas' misguided attempts to do what he thought was the right thing, Sam put himself in his brother's shoes.

If their roles and been reversed and Cas had broken Dean's head, Sam realized he'd probably be every bit as angry and bitter as Dean was.

"Dean-"

"I don't care that he said he'd save you when it was all over," Dean said and for the first time Sam could hear more than anger in his brother's voice. "All this you just went through? That you're _still_ going through? Hedid this to you, Sam. He almost killed you. How can you forgive him so easily?"

"I never said it was easy." Sam's smile was brief.

It _wasn't_ easy. But he'd done it anyway. Maybe it was because, once upon a time, he'd done something so similar that he found it easier to understand _why_ Cas had done what he had done. Maybe it was because he was ok now and Cas had done that for him and had taken the crazy on himself and the guy just plain deserved to be forgiven.

Dean interrupted his thoughts. He asked, "Not easy, but you did it?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because he's my friend. And because you did it for me."

Sam knew Dean understood what he meant. He might never have said it aloud, but Sam knew Dean had finally forgiven him for what he'd done with Ruby. What he'd done _to_ Dean. It wasn't all forgotten; probably never would be. And Sam figured there was a lot of it that Dean _hadn't_ forgiven him for, but he'd forgiven him enough to allow them to pick up the pieces and move on at least.

Dean studied him for a long time, then nodded.

When he didn't say anything else, Sam said, "We can't leave him alone back there."

"He isn't."

"What?"

"He isn't alone."

"What are you talking about? We suddenly make a new friend I don't remember?" Which was possible, Sam supposed given how much he still couldn't remember of the past few months.

Dean shook his head and looked uncomfortable and irritated by the question. "Not a friend exactly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Meg." Dean shrugged and looked away, wiping some grease off his hands. "Meg helped...well, she helped me and Cas get into the hospital to get you out. There were demons-"

"You left _Meg_ with Cas?" Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. His skin started crawling at the very mention of her name and he fought the urge to scratch until he bled. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

Dean didn't look like he could believe what he was hearing either. He shook his head. "We talked about this when we left. He about destroyed the world. I'm not the only one pissed at him. It was safer for him - and us - to leave him there where no one but Meg knows about him. You don't remember that?"

Sam snorted. "I barely remember _being_ there. So yeah, let's go with I don't remember the part where you left Meg to watch out for Cas."

"Look, it's not ideal. I get that." Dean slapped the rag down on the edge of the car, eyes blazing. "I didn't exactly have a lot of time to think up a stellar plan."

"I know," Sam interrupted. Dean looked defensive and the last thing Sam had intended with this conversation was to make him feel that way. Sam tried to change the direction of the conversation. "Dean, I get it. I do, ok? You had a lot on your plate. You made the best decision you could."

Dean's shoulders dropped and the anger faded, leaving him looking tired and defeated.

Sam went on, "All I'm saying is maybe we should give some thought to where we go from here. Right now, maybe Cas _is_ safer there. But maybe we should, I don't know, stay in contact with Meg and make sure... he's ok."

"He's not ok," Dean whispered, meeting his gaze for a split second before staring at the engine.

And because he'd had the crazy pulling his own brain apart for months on end, Sam could only nod in agreement. He didn't even really remember seeing Cas in the hospital. Cas had done...whatever he'd done, and then Sam just remembered soul-deep emptiness, utter exhaustion, fear and confusion.

It had felt like death.

The crazy might have been gone, but the damage left behind wasn't.

Sam studied his brother, realizing that as angry as Dean was, he was also torn up about leaving the angel in that hospital; crazy and alone with only a demon for protection. Getting to the place where he could forgive him might take a lot longer, but Sam was glad to finally get an indication that Dean hadn't _completely_ written Cas off. That there was some part of him that still cared despite the anger. A part of him which might, with time, be able to forgive Cas.

And, suddenly, the realization of what Dean had done for him hit full strength. Sam couldn't remember if he'd even - "Thank you."

Dean's head snapped up and he looked confused.

Sam quickly elaborated, "For everything. You know...uh, I don't remember if I thanked you before or, well, I just know how-"

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean said, but there was no anger or annoyance in his tone. "You don't have to thank me."

"Yeah. Yeah I do."

Dean studied him for a moment, then nodded. He slammed the hood and said, "You're welcome."

Sam smiled, then asked, "How long has it been anyway?"

"Since?" Dean asked, wiping a spot off the hood of the car then leaning down to start packing up rest of the tools.

"Since we left the hospital."

"I don't know. You think _I've_ been paying attention to the date? I don't even know what day it is." Dean patted his pockets and smirked. "Must've left my calendar in my other pants."

"Funny."

All of a sudden it was like the effort of thinking about everything, trying to remember, trying to deal with it, all hit him like an earthquake. Sam put both hands out on the hood of the car and lowered his head, closing his eyes. He wasn't dizzy, wasn't afraid. Wasn't having a flashback or a panic attack.

He just needed to hit the pause button for a second.

"Sam?"

Of course, trying to communicate that to his brother wouldn't be an easy task and Dean already sounded like he was heading down the short road to panic. Not quite ready to move, but wanting to reassure him, Sam said, "I'm ok."

Dean didn't say anything else. The garage remained silent and still for a moment. When he felt a bit recovered, Sam straightened. Dean was studying him carefully, but not crowding him or pressing for answers.

"I'm ok," Sam repeated. "It was-"

"A lot to process?" Dean asked softly.

"Yeah."

"Now you know how I feel all the time when you lecture me."

Sam caught Dean's teasing smile and rolled his eyes. "I don't lecture you."

Dean waved his hands between them. "What was this then? This thing that just happened where you lectured me about not giving up on Cas? That wasn't a lecture?"

"Shut up."

"I thought so." Dean looked smug, but he also looked better. "It probably sounds stupid, but I guess I'm glad you're feeling up to lecturing me again."

"You missed it?" Sam teased back, grinning.

"I missed you," Dean responded simply, blowing Sam away with his sincerity.

Of course, he couldn't leave it there. It wasn't really their style to come right out and say what they meant. So when Dean quickly added, "I also miss my car," Sam knew what he meant was _I'm glad you're alive and I love you but we are_ so _never saying that aloud right? Good._

And when Sam shook his head and said, "You're such a jerk," he knew Dean understood what _he_ meant too.

Dean smirked, then looked back at the Pacer. "Got a bit more to do here before I can call her road-worthy."

"Ok. I'll leave you to it."

"What're you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna go back and try to read," Sam said over his shoulder. "Maybe I can finish chapter two before midnight."

He heard Dean's laughter as he walked away.

* * *

Half an hour later, Dean found him asleep in the grass and couldn't help but smile. The book was next to him, under his right hand, and a quick peek revealed that it was open to the first page of chapter two. Fighting back the urge to laugh, Dean left him alone and went back to the house.

He raided the kitchen, then made his way to the living room. The Penders weren't home yet, so he crashed on the couch and flipped on the tv. Not really paying attention to what was on the screen, Dean spent the time thinking about everything Sam had said. He'd made some very good points, but some very good points didn't magically erase what Cas had done.

Nothing was going to erase it.

Dean knew he'd never forget; how could he? And, despite Sam's heart-felt efforts, he wasn't so sure about the forgiving part, either. All he was willing to do was try. Try to remember Cas had been their friend before he'd become their enemy. Try not to hate him. Try to care that he was locked up and insane even though he deserved it for what he'd done to Sam.

Dean sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. Shaking his head, he flipped through the channels until he found some wrestling. He pushed Cas to the back of his mind because he couldn't keep thinking about him. Sam had said what he'd needed to say and Dean had listened. But if he kept thinking about it, he was going to drive _himself_ crazy.

Grabbing a tissue in the nick of time to catch a sneeze, Dean blew his nose. He dropped the tissue into the wastebasket next to the couch and settled back with his plate of snacks. The snacks disappeared fast and he was half-asleep by the time he heard voices out in the kitchen. He rubbed his eyes and sat up a bit, listening.

Cupboard doors and the refrigerator were being opened and closed so he assumed the Penders were back. A peek at his watch showed that it was going on six. Despite the snacks, he was already hungry for supper. Wondering if he might be allowed a beer at least, Dean almost got himself off the couch. But he figured the answer to that request would still be a _no,_ and it didn't seem worth it to bother moving yet.

Then he picked up on the fact that it wasn't just a two-way conversation between the Penders happening in the kitchen. Sam was there, too. Dean had no idea when he'd come inside, but he could hear him talking. Turning the tv down just a pinch, he strained his ears to tune into the conversation.

They must have been talking about the movie they'd just gone to see. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to a movie. Seemed like lately there had been no break. No slow down. No time for anything except the job. His mood soured for a minute and then he heard laughter.

Arla was laughing at something Tommy had said, but it was when he heard Sam laughing, Dean decided to get off the couch and investigate. He paused in the hallway where he could see the kitchen, yet remain mostly out of view.

He stood there and took in the scene before him.

Tommy was sitting on the counter, munching on chips. Whatever he was talking about was making Arla laugh and Sam smile. She was standing in front of the stove and cooking something. Dean couldn't tell what, but it smelled fantastic. Sam was leaning against the counter next to her and handing her things from the pantry when she asked for them. In between, he was snitching cookies and carrying on half of the conversation.

Dean couldn't believe what he was seeing. The scene itself would have been amazing on an ordinary day. Sam in the kitchen wasn't typical and Dean was grateful for that. His little brother had a tendency to consistently overcook anything and everything. But it was more than the fact Sam was contributing to the dinner effort that was blowing Dean's mind.

After everything, Dean found it utterly miraculous to see Sam acting so... _normal._ He was talking to Tommy and Arla like they were old friends; which, in a way, they were. Things had been getting better, Dean knew it, but witnessing something like this after the nightmarish week behind them, showed him how _much_ better.

Standing there eavesdropping, Dean heard Sam saying something about a drugged burger. He narrowed his eyes. Surely, Sam wasn't-

"Yeah, he was totally stoned." Sam grinned, accepting the bag of potato chips when Tommy offered it to him.

"On a sandwich?" Tommy shook his head.

Sam nodded, more amused than Dean had seen him in a long time. "The Terducken Slammer."

Tommy busted out laughing and held up a hand as he tried to stop laughing long enough to talk. "Lemme guess...turkey? And duck and chicken? In a sandwich?"

"That would be it," Sam said, munching on a handful of chips.

"That's disgusting!" Arla turned to look up at him.

Sam nodded enthusiastically. "That's what I thought, but man, Dean thought it was the best thing since...I don't know. Since someone figured out how to make a cheeseburger."

"And it drugged him?" Arla asked.

"Yeah. Part of Dick Roman's take over the world plan. Long story." Sam waved a hand like it didn't matter. "Took all night and half the next day before he sobered up."

Dean rolled his eyes at how amused his brother seemed with the episode. It hadn't been that funny. Not really. He'd been a little out of it, sure. But it wasn't like he'd-

"He sang _Bohemian Rhapsody_ in his sleep. Twice," Sam said, grinning again. "Then he woke us up at two in the morning because he couldn't find the other end of the rainbow and he was hungry for sushi. Bobby was not amused."

 _What the hell?_ He frowned, wracking his brain. Dean didn't remember any of that. All he remembered was a wonderful feeling of absolute apathy. But he must have been stoned out of his head if he'd been hungry for sushi. Dean wasn't sure he'd ever even _eaten_ sushi.

Tommy and Arla were laughing and it bothered him a little that everyone was laughing at his expense, then he decided it was actually pretty funny. It hadn't felt funny at the time, and the entire situation was tied up with Bobby's death, but Dean couldn't deny it was funny in retrospect. Of course, Sam was far too amused with the entire situation and Dean was suspicious he was making some of it up.

After Sam shared yet another example of how out of his mind he'd been, Dean decided it was time to make his presence known. At the rate Sam was going, he would be so embarrassed he'd never be able to show his face again. _Seriously, though. He has to be making some of this up, right?_

"Hey." Dean walked into the kitchen and awkwardly inserted himself right in the middle of one of Sam's stories.

"Hey. I was just telling them about the Terducken Slammer," Sam said, smiling brightly. He was far too pleased with himself.

Dean couldn't help but return the smile, though. "The drugged sandwich. Of everything from this entire year, _that_ you remember."

"That I remember." Sam nodded, and he looked so happy about it that Dean couldn't even be annoyed.

"Think I'm staying away from _Biggerson's,"_ Tommy said, sliding off the counter. "Although the sandwich does sound amazing."

"Right?" Dean grinned. His stomach growled just thinking about it. "That was the best sandwich I've ever eaten. Up to the point it turned out to...you know...be part of a monster's scheme to take over the world."

"Well, I'm not sure these burgers are better than that sandwich," Arla said, turning the stove off and sliding some burgers onto a plate. "But they aren't drugged, I'll guarantee that."

"Good." Dean smiled, mouth watering. "They smell amazing."

Arla handed him the plate. "Thank you. Take them out to the back porch would you? We're going to have a picnic dinner. If someone hadn't forgotten to pick up charcoal when we were at the store, we would have been grilling these burgers."

"My bad," Tommy said, rummaging through the fridge for the condiments.

Dean didn't care if she'd _microwaved_ the burgers, he was ready to eat them. Arla handed him the bag of chips and shooed him toward the door. Sam followed with a tray of glasses, plates and napkins.

While Sam organized the table, Dean asked, "So, did you get through chapter two?"

"No." Sam shook his head, sitting down. "I had to go back and reread chapter one because I didn't remember anything. I couldn't even remember the main character's name."

It made him smile, but Dean was careful not to laugh. He could tell it bothered Sam and he didn't blame him. Not being able to get through a simple paperback novel when he was used to reading hundred year old books and reciting Latin exorcisms from memory had to be frustrating.

Tommy and Arla walked out before he could say anything else about it, though.

Dinner was a pleasant, relaxing experience. He didn't eat as much as he wanted to, or usually would, but everything settled better than he'd expected. Sam made up for whatever he wasn't eating and it was a relief to see him eating without looking at the food like it was going to bite him back.

They played a few rounds of poker after dinner, then sat around the fire for an hour or so. Sam turned in first and by the time Dean went inside, he was sound asleep. Standing in the doorway, Dean's gaze was drawn to the collection of pill bottles. He wondered if Sam had taken anything tonight. Hoping that, either way, Sam was going to be able to sleep, Dean headed for the other room.

Sleep didn't come as easily for him as it had for his brother and Dean found himself staring up at the ceiling thinking, once again, about... _everything._

When, after an hour, he still hadn't been able to quiet his troubled mind, Dean pushed himself up and went for his jacket. He hadn't even realized how much his hands were shaking until he started to open the bottle. Hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the scent of the whiskey hit him. Legs going out from under him, Dean sank down, his back to the foot of the bed.

The door was half open because he knew if he closed it all the way, Sam would take that as a blatant _do not disturb_ sign. He really hoped Sam wasn't going to disturb him right now, but he hadn't shut the door all the way since he'd been here and he wasn't going to start now. From where he was sitting, he could keep an eye on the door while also having a good view of the night sky beyond the open window.

Rubbing his hand across his mouth, his gaze drifted from the window to the bottle in his other hand.

 _It's just a sip to help you sleep,_ he told himself, lifting the bottle.

It stung going down and he pressed a fist to his stomach. After a moment, he took another sip because the first one may have hit his stomach like a burning fireball, but it worked miracles for every other part of him. The second and third sips hurt as much as the first, but by the time he was on his fourth sip, Dean wasn't paying any attention to the pain.

He slept better than he had in weeks.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed!**

 **As a heads up...This story is officially complete! I typed "the end" on Sunday night! ahhhh! To prepare you...there are 44 total chapters and then 45 will be a very brief epilogue. Yeah...so much for ending on ch 40 lol. Sounded like most of you didn't mind there being some extra chapters though. ;) But that is the official count now, 44 with an epilogue.**

 **Have a wonderful day!**


	39. Chapter 39

**Hello! Hope you're all having a good weekend! Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I especially want to say thank you to all of you wonderful guest reviewers since I don't get the chance to send you a personal reply. Thank you for taking the time to let me know what you thought of the chapters. It's always a joy to read everyone's feedback. :D**

 **So...as a heads up, there is no progress without setbacks. Sigh. The road to healing is a bumpy one.**

 **And, as a warning, there is some mention of past suicidal thoughts in this chapter. I hope I'm handling all of this respectfully. I don't want to hurt anyone or be in any way disrespectful in how I'm presenting mental health issues, suicide, sexual abuse and PTSD. I'm just trying to maybe be more respectful than the show has been in some ways. I completely understand they don't have time to delve so deeply into these things, but I do wish they would spend like half a second here and there to acknowledge the trauma the boys have endured and be realistic about them not just 'bouncing back' in one episode from the kinds of awfulness they've gone through.** **I never mean to go so in-depth. I really didn't lol!**

 **Anyway! I hope you will enjoy.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 39**_

Everything went wrong from the moment he first woke up.

It didn't seem fair considering the previous day had been so good. He'd gone to bed at a reasonable hour. The headache had been a memory and he hadn't needed to take anything in order to fall asleep.

Regardless of how the previous day had gone, Sam woke up from a nightmare and nearly fell out of bed as he fought the confinement of the sheet over him. Frantic, disoriented, and half-awake, he searched for the blood, searched for the spears that had been pinning him down while the devil had-

His stomach turned and he was rushing across the hall for the bathroom with the heat and the pain still pressing in on him like they were real and not memories. He didn't get the door completely closed in his haste to make it to the toilet so he figured Dean would be invading his privacy any minute. Maybe the sounds of him throwing up everything he'd eaten yesterday would keep Dean out for awhile.

He'd had nightmares before. It was nothing new. So why did it feel so much worse? Why did it feel like everything had just fallen into pieces again? Why did he feel like the effort of getting up off the floor would kill him?

By the time he was finished, the sensations of phantom pain and heat that had driven him from bed had faded. Sam tucked the latest nightmare into the darkest corner of his mind with all the rest of them. Slumping back against the wall, Sam wiped the sweat from his face with the bottom of his t-shirt and waited. He kept a hand pressed to his ribs because this little episode hadn't exactly made the healing injury feel better. Breathing slowly returning to normal, Sam stared at the door and waited.

No one came busting into the room. Which seemed odd. Maybe Dean was sleeping soundly. Or maybe he was downstairs eating. Sam hadn't checked the time before he'd left the room. He sat there in silence for a bit longer wondering when it would get better. When he'd get over it.

The solitude continued and he finally felt safe enough to get to his feet. He closed the bathroom door and locked it to ensure he could take a shower in peace. No one pounded on the door or kicked it in before he was finished, so Sam had to believe his mad dash to the bathroom hadn't been noticed.

Once he was dressed, he stood in the hall for a long time. Dean's room was empty and it was half past eight in the morning. He didn't hear any voices downstairs. The temptation to lock the door and fall back into bed almost won out, but the fear of returning to the same nightmare sent him toward the stairs. Anything for a distraction.

The house seemed deserted. Sam walked toward the kitchen and found a note on the counter.

 _Breakfast is on a plate in the fridge. Tommy and Dean went to take the Pacer for a test drive. I'm out back reading. Let me know if you need anything. ~A_

Sam looked out the window and saw Arla sitting in a chair down by the beach. He was relieved that, for the moment, he had the place to himself. Eating wasn't high on his list, but he knew he should try to eat something so he opened the fridge and found the plate. Warming it up in the microwave, Sam deliberated his next move.

Should he go out there and make his presence known or stay inside and hide? By the time the microwave finished heating his breakfast, Sam hadn't made up his mind.

He pulled the plate out of the microwave and set it on the counter. It probably smelled good and probably looked appetizing, but Sam couldn't tell. He stared at the plate, but had no idea what was on it.

The sound of a car pulling up the driveway had him straightening and looking toward the front of the house, heart pounding. Test drive must be over. Sam knew he should sit down and eat. But when he looked back in the other direction, he caught sight of Arla rising from her chair. She would be coming back inside.

His heart started pounding and he rushed for the stairs.

He couldn't have explained why if his life had depended on it. Making it back to the bedroom he'd been using, he slammed the door a little harder than he'd meant to. A weird sort of relief washed over him as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Almost like he'd just won a game of tag and was finally safe.

No one had been chasing him, yet he still felt trapped.

The pounding in his chest didn't stop for several minutes. As it returned to normal, Sam picked up on the sound of voices and occasional laughter downstairs. It made him feel even more ridiculous for having run upstairs the way he had. Surely Arla would find the heated up breakfast and wonder what had happened. Dean would come upstairs and Sam just wasn't in the mood for that.

He shoved himself off the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair and trying to come up with a logical reason he would have left his breakfast behind like that. Because Dean was going to ask.

Looking around the room frantically, he saw his laptop. He could hurry up and act like he'd been trying to find a case. Then he caught sight of the book he was still trying to read. It was a possibility. Picking it up off the desk, he decided it was as good a reason as any. Catching sight of the pill bottles, Sam froze. Maybe he should give one a try-

"No," Sam said aloud, stepping forward.

Anger blossomed from somewhere deep inside and he swept all of the bottles, the Tylenol included, into the wastebasket. He was sick of looking at them, sick of thinking about them, sick of taking them.

And sick of _needing_ them.

He tightened his grip on the book in his hand as he stared blindly at the spot on the dresser he'd just cleaned off. So focused on his thoughts, Sam failed to hear the knock on the door or the way it opened cautiously. But he did hear Dean call his name and reacted without thinking.

Spinning around, he pitched the book as hard as he could and, with a satisfying thud, it hit the wall just to the left of Dean's head. Dean's eyes were wide as he glanced down at the book, then back up again. Sam felt as shocked, if not more so, by what had happened.

"I thought it was decent," Dean said, the shock fading as he leaned down and picked up the book.

"What?" Sam asked, hoarsely. He backed up and put a hand against the edge of the dresser when everything started to spin.

Dean held up the book and flipped through the pages before setting it back down on the desk. He stayed in the doorway, folded his arms and said, "The book. I didn't think it was that bad. I mean, I've read some books that I've wanted to throw against a wall, but not that one. What didn't you like?"

Sam frowned and shook his head. The motion only made him feel worse and he tightened his grip on the dresser as he asked, "Are you being serious right now?"

"I don't know." Dean shrugged, staring at him in that awful assessing way he'd been doing far too often lately. "You almost brained me with a paperback novel. Seemed pretty serious to me."

"It wasn't about the book," Sam muttered, squeezing his eyes closed for a second.

"Well I'm glad you didn't have the laptop in your hand when you decided to try out for the major leagues."

"I almost did."

"Try out for the majors?"

"No, the laptop." Sam didn't know why he was trying to explain anything.

He also didn't know why Dean was being such a jerk. And he didn't know why he was finding it so difficult to remember which direction was up. Realizing he still had his eyes closed, Sam opened them to discover it didn't really help anything.

"Alright, that's it, time to sit down."

Dean's voice was loud and close and he was pushing him onto the edge of the bed. Sam didn't like being pushed around at all, but he didn't fight him off because he knew it was just his brother. It wasn't a hallucination or the devil himself. It was his brother and this was all real and he knew it.

"What the hell's going on with you?" Dean's face looked like it was behind a fogged up piece of glass and Sam fought the temptation to reach out and try to wipe away the condensation. "Sam?"

"Nothing," he answered, knowing it was pointless.

"Oh, well, in that case, I'll just leave you to it."

Sam wished he would, but the sarcasm was strong in Dean's voice and he wasn't moving. It was a standoff. Dean was silent, crouching in front of him, still behind that foggy glass and still not moving.

"You didn't eat breakfast," Dean said softly. He stood up but didn't leave.

"Not hungry."

"Sam-"

"How was the test drive?" Sam interrupted, eager to change the subject.

Dean sighed and looked far from happy, but he said, "Went well. Think it's finished."

"Good."

"Yeah."

Back to awkward silence.

"Did you get any sleep last night?"

Sam swallowed hard and stared at the floor. He must have gotten some sleep. But the way he was feeling right now told him it hadn't been restful. Only the last nightmare had torn him from sleep, but he had a feeling it hadn't been the first one.

"I'm gonna take that as a no," Dean said, keeping his voice low.

"Dean, I can't do this right now," Sam whispered, desperately trying to make his brother understand. He stared at the floor, not sure he could handle more questions.

Of course, Dean had other opinions. "Sam, you threw a book at a wall. You're strung out like you're about to snap. I think we need to do this right now. You got a headache again?"

Sam's shoulders slumped and he rested his head in his hands and said, "Yes."

"That sucks. I'm not gonna be able to get you to take anything for it, am I?"

"It's not that bad."

"Ok. Can you tell me why you're up here throwing books instead of eating?"

Sam almost wished he _had_ hit his brother in the face with the book. The pounding in his head was increasing with every word Dean said which sucked since he'd made it most of yesterday without a headache. Now, in addition to the headache, he felt the familiar pressure squeezing his chest.

He looked up at his brother and said, "I can't breathe."

"Yeah, yeah you can," Dean said, moving closer. He sat down on the edge of the bed and tapped Sam's chest. "You're breathing right now or we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I don't want to be having this conversation," Sam muttered, rubbing his chest.

"Got that loud and clear." Dean snorted. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Dean was obviously at the end of his rope and Sam hated that it was his fault. "What do you want to do here, man? You want me to leave you alone?"

"Yeah," Sam said, but in his mind he was screaming, _No!_

"Ok. Well, come on, then," Dean said, getting to his feet and holding out a hand.

Sam stared at him. "What?"

"Come on. You're not sitting up here all day. You need to eat and you need to snap out of it." Dean waved his hand.

"I told you I want-"

Dean shook his head with a half-smile. "You were lying. I've known you for how long, Sammy? I know when you're lying."

Sam hated that he had a point. Taking a deep breath, Sam forced himself to stand up. He slapped Dean's hand away and muttered, "I wish I _had_ thrown that book at your face."

"I know you do." Dean laughed as he walked to the doorway.

Following his brother downstairs, Sam felt a little better. But the shadow still hovered over him and he was afraid the darkness was going to swallow him again.

* * *

Arla had come back inside when she'd heard the car pull into the driveway. She'd found the omelette, warmed up and uneaten, on the counter in front of the microwave. The kitchen was deserted and it had made her uneasy. There might have been an innocent reason behind the abandoned plate, but she'd guessed it wasn't so simple.

As soon as Dean had found out about it, he'd gone straight upstairs without hesitation. Arla had made Tommy a fresh cup of coffee and joined him at the table to wait. He told her how the drive had gone and asked how much reading she'd accomplished.

"I didn't get very far," Arla admitted, hands wrapped around her mug. "It was nice to sit outside in the sunshine, though."

"It's a beautiful day." Tommy nodded. "What are your plans?"

"I'm not sure."

Tommy settled back in his chair and asked, "What do you think about fishing?"

"You know what I think about fishing." Arla smiled, then took a sip of coffee.

"Yes, yes. I do. But what do you think about it as something to do today? I was thinking it might be time to get them out of the house."

Arla considered his suggestion. It wasn't a bad idea.

"Figured we wouldn't go for a real long time," Tommy continued.

"I agree."

Tommy looked pleased. "Excellent. You wanna bring your book and hang out?"

"No, dear." She leaned closer and patted his cheek. "I'll stay here on the beach and read while you have a boys day out."

It wasn't that she didn't like boating, she did. And, while she enjoyed the peacefulness of fishing, she'd never liked actually catching a fish. She was an ER doctor so there was pretty much _nothing_ she hadn't touched at one point or another. Even as a child, she hadn't been squeamish about blood or injuries or almost anything else. But for some reason, touching a cold, wriggling fish never ceased to gross her out.

"We'll see if they even like the idea."

Arla asked, "How did the test drive go? He seemed like he was in a pretty good mood this morning."

"Went fine. I think he still wants to tinker with the car. It's more because he's looking for something to do than because the car really needs any more work."

"Maybe you should have bought a car in even worse condition."

Tommy laughed. "You know, I actually thought about that. The drive went well and he did seem much better."

"Good." Arla heard footsteps on the stairs and said softly, "I just hope the rest of the day goes as well."

"Me too."

She looked up as the boys walked into the room. Dean immediately sat down next to Tommy and started talking about the car again. He was acting as laid back as he had earlier, but Arla could see a tension that hadn't been there earlier. Uncertain if she should go reheat Sam's breakfast, she started to move, but he walked past the table with a smile and a quiet greeting.

Hearing him start the microwave, Arla stayed where she was. The car talk continued even as Sam brought his plate and his own cup of coffee out to the table. He sat down and took a sip, then grinned when his brother glared at him. She'd had an argument with Dean earlier and he hadn't been appreciative of her continued ban on coffee. Hiding her own smile behind her cup, she did feel a little bad that Dean was sitting there, forbidden to have any coffee, while they were all enjoying a cup.

"So unfair," Dean muttered, still glaring at his brother.

Sam's smile was smug and he purposefully kept his cup out of his brother's reach as he started to eat his breakfast.

Dean rolled his eyes and Arla was pretty sure he'd kicked Sam under the table.

As if sensing an impending fight, Tommy brought up fishing. The topic provided Dean with a distraction from his lack of coffee and he seemed more agreeable to the plan than she'd expected. She was a little concerned that it might be more than he could handle, but given the fact he seemed so interested, she decided not to say anything. She trusted Tommy to ensure the adventure wouldn't get out of hand and that he'd bring them back if necessary.

Arla wasn't too surprised when Sam declined the fishing trip, but she caught a hint of disappointment and concern in Dean's eyes. He didn't make a big deal about it, though, and he didn't change his mind about going which she felt was a step in the right direction. He needed to get out of the house and he needed to leave his brother alone for awhile. They'd been getting along well for the most part, but Dean still was proving to be a bit more...attentive...than Sam appreciated.

So she packed lunches for Tommy and Dean while all three of the guys went out to the garage to search for the poles and other supplies. The place was well stocked with just about anything anyone could need on a vacation. It made packing a lot easier when you knew the place you were going already had most of what you would need.

Once Tommy and Dean had gone, Arla wasn't sure what to do. Sam had put on a pretty good front while they'd been at the table, but he didn't look like he was feeling well. Still wondering what had happened earlier for him to have left the plate sitting there, Arla knew better than to ask. She stood on the front lawn with him for a full minute after the car had left the driveway.

Deciding to bite the bullet, she broke the silence and said, "Weather's supposed to be nice all day. Would you be interested in taking a walk at some point?"

Sam glanced at her as if he'd forgotten she was standing there. He shook his head slowly and said, "Thanks. Maybe later. I've got...some stuff to do."

"Ok." Arla smiled even though she suspected he didn't have anything he needed to do. "I think I'm going to grab a book and sit down by the beach again. If you need me, that's where I'll be."

"Sounds good." Sam held the door open for her as they walked back inside.

Arla wanted to say more. Wanted to ask him what was wrong, how he was feeling, what she could do to make things better. But she didn't do any of that. Instead, she grabbed her book off the table as she listened to him heading upstairs. And then she opened the back door and left the house, knowing she needed to do exactly what she'd been trying to get Dean to do.

 _Give him space._

* * *

Dean was surprised when Tommy parked the car at a small boat landing. He'd been expecting to fish off a dock, but Tommy led the way to a boat. Not a rowboat, either. A good sized in-board speedboat that Arla's cousin owned. Since the only real boating he'd ever done had been to take a very small motor boat out hunting for a water sprite, Dean was a little uncertain about the idea.

He wasn't afraid of being out on the water per se; but on the other hand, he wasn't exactly interested in pushing his luck. His luck was already very thin. If he drowned out on the water it would be just about as embarrassing as if he'd wound up with his face smashed against the rocks.

"You don't do a lot of boating, do you, Dean?" Tommy smiled up at him. He'd already loaded the gear and was standing in the boat waiting.

Dean squared his shoulders and took a step closer. He wasn't _quite_ ready to step off the dock, though. "Not like I've had a lot of opportunity or need to go waterskiing."

"Well, son, you're not getting your opportunity today, either." Tommy grinned. "You're about two decades too late to see this old man out on a pair of skis."

"So you did waterski, though?"

Tommy nodded. "Here and there. I grew up in Arizona. Not a lot of opportunities to do a lot of watersports."

Taking a deep breath, Dean stepped into the boat even though he really wanted to go in the opposite direction.

Fishing wasn't that important.

"It's ok, Dean. Haven't lost a man yet."

Dean snickered, but knew it was obvious how uncomfortable he was. Tommy grabbed his elbow to steady him and guide him to a seat. Dean grabbed the edges of the seat and tried not to look like he was ready to puke. Was it possible to feel seasick when you weren't even moving yet?

"You gonna make it?"

"Yeah," Dean said, forcing himself to relinquish his death grip. "I'm good. We're good. Let's go."

Tommy studied him for a moment longer, then threw the lines off and started the engine. Even if being on the water made him uncomfortable, Dean had to appreciate the sound of that motor. His nervousness faded as Tommy pushed the throttle. The wind in his hair and the spray of the water on his face made him feel as alive as tearing down a back highway with the windows down. He didn't even realize he was grinning until Tommy turned to him and asked if he wanted to take the wheel.

Dean didn't hesitate. It was almost twenty minutes before they even found a place to settle down to actually fish. They'd gone around the lake multiple times and Dean had finally begun to feel comfortable behind the wheel and on the water.

"You take to that naturally," Tommy commented when Dean slowed the boat.

"Guess a boat's not that much different than a car. Give me something with a wheel and a motor and I'll drive it."

Tommy got the fishing gear out and said, "You strike me as the type who got behind the wheel at a very young age."

"Probably wasn't even twelve." Dean baited the hook and tried to remember exactly when he'd first started driving.

"I think I was about that old myself."

Dean raised an eyebrow as Tommy cast his line. "Your folks were ok with that? I mean, my dad put me behind the wheel because I had to know how to drive in case he got hurt on a hunt. I didn't think normal parents went for that kind of thing."

"They don't." Tommy smiled, settling back comfortably to wait for a bite on his line. "I stole my mom's car after she grounded me."

Dean laughed. "What'd you get grounded for?"

"Kissing a girl."

Dean laughed even harder.

Tommy grinned and said, "My sentence got extended by about two weeks after I stole her car."

"I'm sure."

"You ever get grounded?"

"Actually...not that I remember. Dad was tough on us, but he also was probably a lot more lenient on some things than most dads are."

"Makes sense given his...occupation."

Dean cast his line. "Yeah. When you hunt monsters, your priorities are a little different than most people."

"I'm beginning to understand that."

"What about your dad?" Dean asked, shifting so the sun wasn't in his eyes. "What did he do for a living?"

"He was a lawyer."

"Yeah? Sammy went to Stanford to be a lawyer."

"I'm assuming he didn't finish?"

"Dropped out to help me find Dad," Dean said, feeling familiar regret.

He still hated that Sam had been forced to abandon his dream of a normal life. Dean had, selfishly, been relieved to have his brother back by his side and, but he'd never meant for their reunion to destroy Sam's life. Knowing that even if he hadn't come to Stanford, Jessica probably still would have died, gave him the smallest degree of consolation. Thinking about that, though, only made him sick to his stomach because if Jessica had been murdered the way she had and Dean hadn't been there, he knew he would have lost his brother that very night.

"Must've been a difficult decision," Tommy interrupted his thoughts.

"It was." Dean nodded, staring out across the calm waters. "He never wanted to live this life. You know? He was the one who wanted normal. Wanted to get out."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah."

Dean shrugged. "I never really had a choice. This was my life. Dad needed me. I honestly don't know what I'd do except this."

"I understand."

"You do?"

"Yeah. I do. You seem...settled."

"What?" Dean raised an eyebrow. The last thing he felt was settled.

Tommy smiled. "I'm serious. You've grown up since that Christmas you boys spent with us."

"Well, I feel older. I'll tell you that."

"Me too. But it's more than that." Tommy reeled in his line, then cast it out again. "I think you know your purpose. Your role. Back then, you were searching. Not just for your father. You weren't sure who you were or what you were supposed to be doing. Now you look like you've grown into your occupation. I know you've been through alot and probably don't feel like it, but you look like a man who's made his decision."

Dean settled back and pondered Tommy's words.

Maybe he _had_ grown up more than he'd realized.

Feeling a tug on his line, Dean sat back and smiled.

* * *

Today was different and he didn't know why.

Sam stared at the wall.

The same wall he'd been staring at ever since he'd returned to bed. The same exact spot on the same wall, in fact. He didn't know what time it was. Couldn't have cared less. It must have been around or after lunch, though, because he'd heard Arla call his name softly from the doorway not that long ago. He'd closed his eyes and ignored her and she hadn't lingered long.

This was not the way things were supposed to be going.

Everything was supposed to be better. He'd _felt_ better. Yesterday, anyway. Not today. And he wasn't sure why. Lying there on his side on the top of the covers, staring at the wall, he'd had plenty of time to contemplate potential reasons things were not better today.

It wasn't just because of the nightmare that had started his morning off all wrong. Because the nightmare was nothing new. Even though it had been a bad one, it wasn't unexpected so it couldn't be to blame. The headache was back with a vengeance despite the coffee. He debated digging through the trash for the Tylenol but it didn't seem worth the effort.

Nothing seemed worth the effort.

Whatever it was that made today different, he didn't like it.

Yesterday had been a really good day.

It had started off rough, but that had been his own fault for sitting out by the fire until after one am. He'd struggled to fall asleep once Tommy had made him come back inside and he'd woke up much earlier than he would have preferred. But the rest of the day had gone well and he'd almost been able to pretend he didn't remember why they'd wound up here in the first place.

Yesterday had been a really good day.

Today, though, it had been all he could do to get through breakfast. Sitting at the table, he'd been grateful that Tommy had managed to come up with topics of conversation to keep his brother occupied. He'd forced himself to eat and had pretended everything was fine even though he doubted he'd fooled anyone. Dean had caught his meltdown with the book upstairs and he knew that even though Arla had let him go, he knew she would have preferred to keep an eye on him.

Sam stared at the wall and wished he could figure out why breathing was so difficult. Why moving was so difficult. Every time he thought about getting up, it was as if the mere thought of moving exhausted him to the point where it was all he could do to keep breathing. There was no pressure now. No chest pain. No panic.

There was just... _nothing._

He needed to do something.

He'd gone round and round with ideas.

Fire up the laptop and find them a case. He _needed_ a case. Needed to be on the road. Needed to be away from all this _normal._ Away from a place that seemed more foreign to him than anywhere else he'd ever been in his life. But the more he thought about the effort required to get up and grab the laptop, the less any of that seemed to matter.

He considered just lying there and reading the book. But thinking about trying to read the book was discouraging because he knew he'd have to start at chapter one again. So he gave up on that, too.

Arla had suggested a walk and that seemed like a reasonable idea. It felt good to be outside, to be active again. Four times over the course of however long he'd been lying here, Sam had told himself to get up and go for that walk. And four times, he'd abandoned the idea.

He was too tired to move.

The Leviathans and Dick Roman weren't magically going to disappear, but, right now, staring at the wall, Sam couldn't have cared less.

Cas was going ten kinds of crazy and Sam couldn't have cared less.

Dean was still drinking and, right now, at this exact moment? He couldn't have cared less. If Dean needed to drink to deal with life, then who was Sam to judge? At least Dean was dealing with it in his own screwed up way. At least he was ready to fight.

Yesterday, Sam had thought he was ready to fight again.

Today, he didn't feel like fighting. Today he felt...nothing. The emptiness inside and around him felt like it weighed ten thousand pounds and he wished it would just crush him out of existence. Anything would be better than lying here thinking about all the things he should be - _could_ be - doing and yet doing none of them.

Sam stared at the wall.

Today was different and he didn't know why.

* * *

Dean let the distraction of cleaning the fish and chatting with Tommy and Arla keep his mind occupied for awhile. But he was very aware of the absence of one little brother. When Tommy started to work on the fire, Dean decided he'd been patient long enough.

"So. How'd things go here?" he asked, turning to Arla.

"Things were fine," Arla said. "He was very quiet."

Quiet. That could mean a lot of different things and not a single one of them sounded good right now. Dean's stomach was turning uncomfortably. "You guys go for your walk?"

"No, he wasn't interested."

"He didn't want to take a walk?"

Arla shook her head. "I don't think he's feeling very well, Dean."

This was getting worse by the second. "Did you ask him if-"

"He didn't really give me the chance."

Dreading her answer, Dean asked, "He's been upstairs ever since we left, hasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Did he eat lunch?"

"No."

Dean sighed, feeling like everything they'd just begun to piece back together was falling apart again. "I'll go talk to him."

Arla caught his arm and said, "That's a good plan. But you can't bully him, Dean. He's struggling to regain his autonomy and, as hard as it feels, you may need to leave him alone right now."

Dean sucked in a slow breath in an attempt to calm himself down. As soon as she'd said that she didn't think Sam was feeling well, the alarm bells had started up in his brain and they weren't quieting down despite her calm words. After the scene earlier when Sam had thrown a book at the wall and been about ten seconds away from a panic attack, Dean wasn't inclined to be calm about anything now.

"I'm not going to shove pills down his throat or anything, but if he needs to take something, then he needs to take something," Dean said. Arla didn't reply and it made him uncomfortable. "You don't agree."

"It's not that. I just think you should take it easy on him."

"I've _been_ taking it easy." Dean was well aware he was losing it. Keeping his voice low was quickly becoming a losing battle. "I've left him alone for what, three hours now?"

"Yes, you have, and I know that was difficult for you."

"But?"

"But your brother is still putting himself back together. Every single moment of every single day is a battle he's fighting," Arla said, her tone gentle though he could tell she wasn't saying any of this lightly. "It's important for you to realize he is going to have bad days. The hallucinations are gone and he's handling the flashbacks and memories better, but it wouldn't surprise me at all if he's not struggling with some depression right now."

Dean stared at her and tried to unravel that. Depression? Well, sure, it was a bit depressing what their lives looked like right now. And he remembered she'd mentioned it before, but Dean couldn't quite accept it. He shook his head and asked, "What are you saying? He's depressed because he misses the devil screaming in his head?"

"Absolutely not." Arla's expression was sad and Dean had a feeling it was because he wasn't grasping what she was trying to tell him.

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that he's been subjected to physical, mental and emotional abuse. He's lived with a voice in his head - a hallucination - tormenting him for months. And that was after he was suffered through a century of torture."

Each word felt like a slap in the face and Dean didn't like thinking about any of it, let alone hearing it stated so boldly.

"Dean, it's not that he misses the devil. It's that he's trying to come to terms with everything that was taken from him," Arla continued despite his discomfort. "Sometimes the most difficult aspect of healing from the type of things he went through is adapting to the normal, ordinary, mundane aspects of life. Yesterday was a really good day for him but, even as the nightmares and panic attacks ease, he's facing a world around him that doesn't know what he's gone through. He's trying to adjust, to fit back into the world. Trying to fit back into the life he had before, but-"

"It's like something doesn't fit right," Dean said softly. Understanding was beginning to dawn on him.

"Yes." Arla smiled briefly. "You need to understand depression is very common after the types of things Sam endured."

He did realize it. He just hadn't thought about it in those terms before. Dean remembered being depressed when he'd come back from hell. When he'd had nightmares and flashbacks and panic attacks. Remembering what Alistair had done to him. What _he'd_ done to others.

There had been days he'd wanted to never get out of bed. Moments in the darkest hours of the night, while Sam either slept or was out sneaking around with Ruby, when Dean had held his gun in his hand and thought about pulling the trigger to put an end to his misery, his pain. He'd never thought about it in terms of being depressed, but it made sense now.

Dean looked toward the stairs, then back to Arla and asked, "So what do you think I should do?"

"I think you should give him space when he needs it. Be there for him, but try not to pressure him. Try to understand that this process is going to take a long time."

Taking a deep breath, Dean nodded. He knew she was right. The problem was that they typically didn't have the healthiest coping skills. Or patience. That was something he in particular lacked. But he was going to have to try. So he nodded and said, "I'll just go check on him and I won't shove any pills down his throat."

"Good boy," Arla said, smiling as she patted him on the cheek.

Dean rolled his eyes, but returned her smile. He headed through the house and was surprised to see his brother coming down the stairs.

"Hey," he said, stumbling to a stop before he literally was run over. Sam seemed to be in a big hurry to go somewhere.

And he didn't exactly look happy to see him. Sam paused forward movement, but said, "I'm going for a walk. Don't follow me. I don't need a babysitter and yes, I have a weapon."

Dean's jaw dropped and he stared at him as he walked to the door. But by the time Sam was out the door, Dean still hadn't thought up anything to say.

"Damn it." He waited for a moment, then turned to go back outside to eat some fish for dinner and hope he'd done the right thing this time.

Arla was standing at the back door when he got to it and, from her expression, he could tell she'd witnessed the exchange.

He looked at her helplessly and said, "I let him go."

"I think you did the right thing, Dean." Arla came closer and squeezed his arm. "I know how worried you are, honey. I think it's just been a very rough day for him and he needs a little more time to himself."

She was probably right. He didn't like it. But he didn't have to.

When Arla said, "Come back outside," he did so without hesitation.

* * *

They'd been outside for close to forty minutes now. Tommy could tell Dean was very aware of how long it had been. He was worrying about his brother, but he was at least attempting to make conversation as they prepared and cooked the fish.

Tommy had just checked the fish when he felt his phone vibrating. Sliding it out of his pocket, he saw a new text and smiled when he saw who it was from.

 _Can you tell him I'm fine? I tried to call him and Arla._

He texted Sam back, _I'll let him know._

Looking up, Tommy said, "Sam tried to call you. He says he's fine."

Of course, that didn't exactly make Dean feel better. Tommy saw the alarm in his eyes. Dean held out a hand. "Let me talk to him."

Tommy tossed him the phone and wondered how Sam was going to handle it.

Dean dialed the number then asked, "Sam? Where are you?"

Dean's expression changed and Tommy exchanged a glance with Arla. She shrugged. Tommy looked back at Dean and watched a smile spread over his face.

"Seriously?" Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, are you ready for me to pick you up or you need a little more time to sit there alone eating your chicken nuggets?"

Dean focused on the call for a moment, then said, "Ok, sit tight. I'll come get you."

"Is he alright?" Arla asked, leaning forward in her chair. Tommy had no doubt that she would be ready to rush over there in a heartbeat if Dean said he wasn't alright.

Dean smiled, even though he didn't look any less concerned himself. "He said he was ok. Walked to town and got hungry. Stopped at McDonald's but only had enough cash on him for chicken nuggets. I don't suppose I could borrow a car to go pick up my idiot little brother?"

Tommy accepted the phone back when Dean tossed it and said, "Come on inside. I'll grab the keys."

Arla didn't get up even though Tommy knew she wanted to. She said, "Let me know if you boys need anything."

Dean nodded then headed into the house. Tommy followed him inside and grabbed the keys to the Pacer from the tray on the table.

"Here you go," Tommy said as Dean took the keys. He almost told him that the car was for him, but decided now was not the time.

"Thanks."

Tommy clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him toward the front door. "Go pick your brother up, son. Drive safe."

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Looks like it will be a chapter a week from here. I'll probably update on Fridays/Saturdays. Should be wrapping up at the beginning of April.**

 **On a happy note, I have a funny, fluffy pure brotherly togetherness story coming out right after this one wraps up (you can read it once you've dried your tears). After that little two shot, I have a tag to Red Meat. I'm actually working to finish that one up right now. It looks like it will be about 8-9 chapters. So there's a preview of what's to come. :D**

 **Thanks again and I hope you all have a great week!**


	40. Chapter 40

**Warning: Super long chapter ahead! :) Hope you will enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 40**_

It felt _so good_ to be driving again.

Dean smiled as he accelerated down the road. Sure, the Pacer kind of sucked, but he was behind the wheel and in control of where he was going and how fast he was going to get there. Of course, thinking about how good it felt to be driving reminded him that they were short a car of their own and that was going to be an issue soon. They couldn't stay with the Penders forever so he was going to have to figure out a way to steal a car. That thought kind of decreased his enjoyment of the drive.

And then his thoughts turned to the reason he was behind the wheel in the first place and the worry took over again.

Sam had sounded ok on the phone, but there had been an undercurrent of stress in his voice that had Dean pushing the speed limit more than he would have liked to do in a car that Tommy had bought. He turned onto the main road and had to focus more on his surroundings because, while he might be getting a feel for the town, he hadn't been driving through it before. It took him a bit longer than he wanted, and one wrong turn, before he saw the gaudy colors of the fast food chain. It wasn't terribly far from the Penders' house, but it would have been a significant hike for someone who wasn't exactly in top form right now.

Pulling into the driveway, he frowned as he hunted for his brother. No sign of him so Dean drove around the back of the restaurant and the relief hit him like a punch in the chest when he saw Sam sitting on the curb at the far end of the parking lot. Dean pulled up in front of him and put the car in park.

He was about to get out of the car, but Sam was on his feet and pulling the door open before Dean could move. Sam folded himself into the too small car and Dean was feeling just relieved enough to open his mouth to make a crack about how had the nuggets tasted. Before he could, though, Sam was shaking his head and holding up a warning hand.

Dean's mouth snapped shut and his left hand tightened around the steering wheel as he put the car back into drive. Apparently Sam was _still_ not feeling talkative. Irritated that he was acting like this after requesting a ride, Dean gritted his teeth and tried to remember everything Arla had been saying.

About patience and all of that.

He waited for traffic to clear, then turned left out of the parking lot to head back to the house. Sparing a quick glance at his brother, Dean knew things had not been good. Whatever had happened, whatever was going on, this had been a very bad day. Hating himself for being gone so long, Dean had to wonder if it would have mattered if he _had_ been around. Sam hadn't wanted to take a walk with Arla earlier. He hadn't wanted to go fishing and he hadn't wanted anyone following him this evening. Of course, he _had_ asked for a lift back, so Dean had to hope that was a good sign.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean looked over at Sam again; surprised that he'd spoken.

He was staring out the side window as he asked quietly, "Can you drive...for a...I just don't want to go back yet."

"Ok." It was a simple request and one that Dean was more than willing to fulfill.

Sam hadn't been asking for much lately, so if a drive was what he wanted to do, Dean was happy to oblige. They'd been in one place longer than they usually were and being back on the road felt good. Not perfect because it wasn't the open road leading them to the next hunt. But it was a road and he had his hands on the wheel and could pick their course.

He found a two lane county road and accelerated. The Pacer wasn't the Impala, not by a long shot, but speed was speed and it felt good to be pushing seventy.

"Can we leave tonight?"

Dean backed off the gas pedal at the sound of his brother's voice. It wasn't entirely surprising to hear Sam ask that question. The real question, though was how he was going to _answer_ the question. Dean himself had been wrestling with the question of when they were going to leave for a long time now.

Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, Dean tried half a dozen different possible answers in his head. Not a single one of which was going to make his brother happy. Not that much seemed to make his brother happy these days.

They weren't leaving tonight that was for sure.

"Not tonight," Dean said, already bracing himself. "We haven't got any money, we don't know where we're going."

"The leviathans are still out there and-"

"You think I'm not aware of that?" Dean couldn't disguise the anger.

Sam sighed, slouching further into the seat. He rested his elbow on the door and pressed his hand to his eyes as he said, "No, I know you are. I just...I just feel like-"

His voice trailed off and Dean considered pulling over, but quickly dismissed the idea. Sam was talking. Maybe it had nothing to do with the fact they were in a car on a back highway, but maybe it did. Either way, he wasn't going to break the spell.

Instead, he prompted, "You feel like what?"

"I feel like I don't know who I am anymore." Sam still had his hand over his eyes. "I feel like I'm losing myself. I don't want to stay here because I _do_ want to stay here."

"Well, that's not confusing at all."

Sam lowered his hand and stared straight ahead. His voice was tight and low as he said, "This is really hard, Dean. They've got it all. They have a normal life. A family. They're happy."

"Yeah, so? What does that have to do with-"

"I want this. I always have. And we're never gonna have it. A home. Normal. You know?" Sam looked over at him and Dean could see exactly how painful this was. "It's just...not easy. Especially after everything else. I need to get back to what we do. It's been so long since I've worked a case. I feel like I'm not-"

"Stop right there, ok?" Dean interrupted him, guessing what Sam was about to say. "You're gonna be fine getting back into it. Sure, maybe you're rusty. Well, guess what? So am I. This hasn't been all about you. Everything we both went through...I haven't been ready to get back out there either. I'm not holding us back because I don't think you're ready, Sam. I'm holding us back because I'm not sure _we're_ ready."

Sam looked at him like it had finally dawned on him that they hadn't been sitting here this entire time merely because of him.

"So get your computer out and start looking for a case. Then we'll talk about leaving." Dean pulled the car off to the side of the road and asked, "You wanna keep going for awhile or you ready for some fresh-caught fish for dinner?"

"We can go back," Sam said, closing his eyes and resting his head against the window.

Dean studied him for a moment. He hadn't expected enthusiasm, but this was even less of a positive response then he'd hoped for. But he turned the car around anyway.

Once they were heading back the way they'd come, Dean looked back at Sam and asked, "You ok?"

Sam shrugged.

"You don't want fish, I'm sure Arla will make you something else."

"Not really hungry."

"You gotta be hungry." Dean shook his head. "You ate, what? four chicken nuggets?"

Sam shook his head against the back of the seat, eyes still closed. "I couldn't-"

"Couldn't what?"

"Couldn't keep 'em down."

"Damn it Sam!" Dean didn't like this at all. Not. At. All. "Was it-"

"They reminded me of...something else."

Dean didn't ask because he didn't want to know. He looked at his brother again and shook his head. "Is that all it was? Or is it-"

Sam shrugged again, and shot him a slightly guilty glance.

"You haven't looked good all day," Dean said, realization dawning. "You're coming down with something, aren't you?"

"Probably your cold." Sam's smile was weak, but genuine. "You've been spreading your plague all week."

"Have not."

"Have too."

And of course, this was the moment that Dean couldn't hold back a sneeze. He cursed again and Sam just laughed. It was a bit of a relief, honestly. Even so, Dean looked back at Sam and asked, "You really haven't felt good at all today, have you?"

Sam rested his head against the window again and said, "No."

"You should've said something."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? Because-"

"It doesn't matter. It's just a cold. You've been miserable for days."

"And you haven't been?" Dean shook his head. He'd known from the moment he'd walked into Sam's room and dodged that paperback that something had been wrong. But he hadn't wanted to press. Hadn't wanted to push.

He cast another look at his brother and said, "We get back and you're gonna let Arla look you over."

"I'm not three." Sam glared at him. "I think I can handle the common cold without needing a medical consult."

"I don't care how old you are, you're letting her check you out because the last thing you need right now is to come down with something more serious than the common cold."

Either Sam had come around to his way of thinking or he was just feeling every bit as miserable as Dean thought he was, but he didn't challenge the statement. He spent the rest of the trip huddled against the door and Dean spent the rest of the trip trying to tell himself it was just a cold. That everything was fine. It wasn't a big deal. It wasn't the end of the world.

By the time they got back to the Pender's place, Sam still looked miserable and Dean still hadn't convinced himself.

* * *

Arla sensed the tension the moment they walked in the door. Not that she hadn't already been worried. But when Dean shoved his brother into a chair at the kitchen table and announced that Sam was sick, she'd been able to see, and hear, the tension loud and clear.

Dean hovered over her shoulder while she talked to Sam and only backed off when she told him to. He slunk over to the other chair when she pointed to it and sat there silently the rest of the time.

"Happy?" Sam asked a few minutes later, glaring at his brother.

"Yes, Sam, I'm happy." Dean's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "You have a fever. I'm ecstatic."

"Low grade," she said at the same time Sam did.

Smiling at the grateful look she received for her support, Arla knew she needed to be fair. Dean had a laundry list of reasons to be worried and she had to admit, she didn't like this turn of events any more than he did. Neither of them needed to experience a setback at this point.

Looking back at Sam, she asked, "Do you feel up to eating anything?"

Even if Dean hadn't piped up to inform her that Sam hadn't been able to stomach the chicken nuggets, the way his face went a shade paler answered her question. It had been a long time since breakfast and he hadn't exactly eaten well then, but there was no point in trying to get him to eat if he wouldn't be able to keep it down.

"Alright," she said, patting Sam on the shoulder. "Either get comfortable on the couch, or go upstairs and lay down. I'll grab you something to drink, but you need to get some rest."

Sam nodded and pushed himself to his feet. Dean opened his mouth and looked like he was going to get up, too. Arla put a stop to all of that with one significant look his way. Just like her own girls had done when she'd given them that look, Dean's mouth snapped shut and he slouched back in the chair.

Smiling to herself, she went to the fridge and hunted for a bottle of Gatorade. Stopping by the table, she asked, "Dean? How are you doing?"

He looked up at her and took a deep breath before answering. "I don't know. I don't like this."

"I don't either, but you have to realize it's not unexpected given the stress he's been under. His immune system is just as depleted as yours is."

"He hasn't been sleeping again."

"That's going to happen," Arla said, gently. "I'm guessing he's going to have trouble sleeping for a long time."

Dean nodded. "Just feels like every time we take a step forward, we wind up going backwards even faster."

"I know it's discouraging. But it's going to happen. You need to keep it in perspective, though. Look at how far he's already come. How far you _both_ have come."

"I know. You're right." Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn't look any less worried, but he did look like he was starting to come to terms with what she was saying.

They fell silent for a moment, then Arla asked, "Did he go upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"Ok. Let me go check on him. Why don't you go back outside for awhile?"

Dean shook his head, but offered a smile. "Thanks. But I've got it."

"Ok." She smiled and handed him the bottle of Gatorade. "Go take care of your brother."

Dean stood there for a long them, then nodded and said, "It's my job."

It wasn't like she hadn't already known that, but hearing him say it now, Arla was reminded of how seriously he took that job.

* * *

Sam was half-asleep when Dean walked into the room. He was only half asleep because he'd expected, _known,_ that Dean would be walking into the room. It had taken a little longer than he'd thought, but the delay was probably because Dean had been talking to Arla about him. He should have been annoyed by that, but he didn't have the energy.

Brandishing the bottle of Gatorade, Dean said, "You want to try some of this right now?"

"Yeah." His throat felt as raw as every other part of him.

Dean stood there waiting patiently, or at least as patiently as Dean was able to, while Sam pushed himself upright. It was like he was moving in slow motion. And it took an awful lot of effort just to sit up. Leaning against the headboard, he held out a hand for the bottle.

Taking a sip, Sam regretted ever having walked out the door earlier. Partially because he felt stupid for having run away, and partially because it had been very, very hard work and his entire body had protested then. And was protesting now.

The walk to town had felt like an eternity and he'd grabbed a snack because he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He hadn't been hungry - just verging on passing out from low blood sugar and the effort of walking. In retrospect, the chicken nuggets had been a poor choice, but he hadn't been thinking clearly and his funds had been woefully inadequate.

"You done with that?"

"Huh?" Sam realized he'd zoned out when he felt Dean taking the bottle from his hand.

Dean was smiling a little as he recapped the bottle and set it aside.

Sam licked his lips and looked at the bottle. "I wasn't finished."

"Well it sure looked like you were." Dean pulled the desk chair over, flipped it around and rested his arms on the back. He didn't return the bottle. "You should have said something."

Tilting his head back against the headboard Sam shrugged. He was fed up with needing to report how he was feeling every minute of every day. And fed up with being assessed every minute of every day. That hadn't been why he'd left, but the thought irritated him now.

"So what happened?"

Sam sighed. He wanted to continue to be irritated. Wanted to tell his brother to get lost and leave him the hell alone. But all of that required energy and he didn't have any left. Besides, he felt awful and if he was nice, maybe he could talk Dean into digging through the trash to get him something for the headache.

Shrugging again, Sam said, "Nothing happened."

"So you just decided to rush off and take a walk after holing up in here all day for absolutely no reason?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"It wasn't all day and I don't have a good answer for you," Sam admitted. He honestly didn't. There hadn't been a specific incident or reason. He'd just lain in bed until he'd finally decided to get up.

Dean nodded slowly and said, "Ok. I get it. I'm just glad you were smart enough to take your phone."

Sam was happy about it, too. Sitting there behind the fast food joint, he'd known he wasn't going to make it back The nuggets had come up easier than they'd gone down and he'd been feeling bad enough to kiss what little pride he had left good bye and try to get ahold of someone. When he'd only been able to reach Tommy, Sam had chickened out of asking for a lift, but then Dean had called him. It had been such a relief to hear his voice that he'd just given up and asked for help like he should have done to start with.

"Earth to Sam." Dean's voice was loud in the quiet room and drew Sam out of his thoughts.

Of course, it also drew his attention to the lack of noise and Sam said, "It's too quiet."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Sam wasn't sure if Dean was concerned or frustrated. Either way, Sam wished he could make him understand. "I don't mean it that way. It's just that it's...still difficult to...it doesn't feel-"

He couldn't find the right words and how could he? How could he explain what it had felt like to hear a voice in his head all day and all night? To hear all the sound effects the devil had gleefully employed to startle him and keep him from even a moment of peace? Watching his brother's expression change from stressed to understanding, Sam hoped Dean was making sense of what he was attempting to say.

"He really screwed with you, didn't he?" Dean asked softly. "I'm sorry. About everything."

"Hey." Sam shook his head, trying to smile. "It's ok. You don't have to be sorry."

"How do I not have to be sorry?"

Sensing his brother was about to lose it and start beating himself up, Sam said, "Look man, we start down that road...we're gonna be here all night. And I'm too tired to pull an all-nighter. By the time we've finished apologizing to each other for everything, the world will have ended-"

"Again," they said at the same time.

Dean snorted, rolling his eyes.

Sam smiled. "Exactly. You said it when we buried Rufus. Blanket apology. Clean slate. Remember?"

"I hate it when you quote me to me."

"No, you don't."

A smile started to creep over Dean's face. He nodded. "Ok. Yeah. Well when I say such brilliant crap, you better quote me."

"I wasn't going to go so far as _brilliant."_ Sam grinned.

"Shut up."

Sam did and they fell silent for a moment. Then Dean asked, "So you want the radio back on?"

"No."

"No?"

"I don't want it on. I'm just saying it feels weird to hear….nothing. But I'm ok with it now."

"Are you?" Dean wasn't being pushy or challenging. He looked worn out and like he needed to be sure.

"I am."

Running a hand through his hair, Dean said, "Good. Alright. So. Uh...what're you thinking here? Are you gonna try to sleep or what?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded, still resting against the headboard. "I think sleeping sounds like the best idea ever."

Dean's smile was brief. "Can't argue with that."

"You gonna go to bed?"

"Not right now. Some of us are hungry. I'll go eat something then I'll turn in. You good? Need anything else?"

"Yeah." Sam looked over at the trash and hoped he could blame the fever and not the embarrassment for leaving his cheeks warm and bright red. "I think I wanna try something for the pain."

Dean frowned. "Pain? Headache or something else?"

"Headache and _everything_ else."

"Ok." Dean didn't look happy about the revelation at all, but he got to his feet. He looked at the top of the dresser, then turned back. "Uh...where'd you-"

"Trash." Sam cringed as he said it, feeling even more embarrassed.

Dean stared at him for a few seconds, then looked at the wastebasket. His eyes widened and he asked, "Really? Even the Tylenol?"

"I was mad."

"At the pills?" Dean asked, as he fished the bottles out of the wastebasket.

Sam sighed. "Not at the pills. At myself. At everything."

"Which is why I almost got a book in my face." Dean grinned, setting the pill bottles up in a neat little row.

"If I'd been aiming for your face, I would have hit your face."

"Yeah, whatever. Your aim has sucked for days." He motioned to the bottles. "What do you want?"

"I don't _want_ any of them," Sam said, grabbing the bottle of Gatorade. His stomach was already turning at the thought of taking anything.

Dean's expression softened and he said, "I know. Which one do you need, though?"

"Let me see how the Tylenol works. If I need the stronger one later, I'll get it."

"Ok."

Sam took the offered pills, then relinquished the bottle back to his brother. Sliding down in the bed, he wasn't sure he would be able to sleep anyway. Especially now that he _had_ caught Dean's cold. _So unfair._

Dean asked, "Anything else?"

"No. Thanks."

Dean studied him for a moment longer then nodded. "Ok then. If you need-"

"I'll come find you," Sam finished for him.

Dean smiled a little and said, "Get some sleep."

Sam nodded, watching him leave the room. Dean turned the light off, and pulled the door halfway closed. That gesture alone did more to relax Sam than anything else. He closed his eyes, knowing Dean trusted him.

* * *

 _Next morning_

Arla heard a bout of sneezing from the living room. It was followed by a string of cursing that would have put a sailor to shame. Trying to muffle her laughter, because it really wasn't nice to laugh when someone was feeling so crappy, she pulled the pies out of the oven and went to check the status of her patient.

The last time she'd peeked in on him, he'd been sound asleep and an infomercial was showing off the features of yet another wonder-bra. Now, though, Sam was sitting up on the couch, blanket on the floor in front of him. His hair was a mess and she couldn't fault him for looking unhappy as he sneezed again into a tissue.

"Bless you," she said, hovering by the bookshelf.

"Thanks." Sam dropped the tissue into the wastebasket and flopped back against the couch.

He looked and sounded pathetic and she tried to fight back the urge to smile again. "More tea?"

"Sure."

Happily, she went back to the kitchen to make him another cup. She glanced outside as the teapot brewed. Tommy looked unsettled and she couldn't help the smile this time. Obviously, he was about to lose the game of chess to Dean. They'd been sitting out there for nearly an hour now and she knew this was their second game.

She waited for the tea water to boil and reflected on the way the day was going. They'd all managed to sleep past eight which was the first time so far. She'd been starting breakfast when Sam had walked into the kitchen. He said he'd slept well and she believed him, but obviously he was miserable.

She'd fed him and medicated him and tucked him up on the couch before Dean stumbled downstairs just after nine-thirty. He'd moaned and groaned until she finally relented and given him a cup of coffee. It hadn't settle as well as he would have liked, that was clear from his expression, but he'd drank it anyway. Slowly. He had only finished half the cup, but he'd perked up afterwards and helped with the dishes. She hadn't asked; he'd simply started working on them without a word.

Once the dishes were finished, Dean had spent a few minutes assessing his brother which led to an argument about whose fault it was for getting who sick in the first place. Tommy'd still been sitting at the table reading the newspaper and they'd fought to keep their amusement to themselves as they listened. It sounded like the argument ended in a resounding loss for Dean which wasn't unexpected since he _had_ given the cold to his brother.

She'd gone in to check on them at that point and found Sam looking happy and Dean sitting in the armchair glaring at him. Deciding a little time apart was in order, she'd hustled Dean outside with Tommy. Ever since, they'd been content and Sam had been napping. Which left her time to bake a couple pies and read another chapter of her book.

The tea kettle whistled and she put a fresh tea bag into the mug. Doctoring the tea up with lemon and honey, and grabbing the thermometer, Arla headed back to the living room. Sam was messing with the blanket and she wasn't sure what he was trying to do, but he wasn't accomplishing anything. Smiling, she set the tea on the coaster on the end table.

"Do you need help?"

Sam sighed, dropping the corner of the blanket. "I'm too hot. Again."

She'd guessed as much. Grabbing the blanket, she draped it on the back of the couch. "Let's check, ok?"

He took the thermometer from her, not looking happy about it. When the read out displayed 100.3 she wasn't happy about it, either.

It hadn't gone up since the last check, but it also hadn't gone down very far.

"It's too early for any more Tylenol," she said, knowing Sam was probably just as happy not to have to take another pill right now.

He waved a hand. "It's not a big deal. It's not that high."

"Even so, maybe we should hold off on the hot tea." Arla considered the situation. "What do you think about trying some ice cream instead? It would probably feel good on your throat."

Sam smiled. "Tea versus ice cream? Is there really any comparison?"

Arla laughed. "Well, I do love a cup of tea, but I think I agree with you. Let me go see what kind we have. Tommy and I picked some up the other night, but it didn't make it home with us."

"Midnight snack?"

"Yes."

"Well whatever kind you have is fine. I'm not picky."

Nodding, Arla headed for the kitchen. Digging in the back of the freezer, she found the carton of black cherry ice cream. She'd picked it up the evening she'd run into Dean at the grocery store. It seemed like a very long time ago. She'd never even had the chance to open the carton before now. Scooping the ice cream into a bowl, Arla thought back to that evening.

She'd known from the very beginning that something had been wrong. But she'd never imagined exactly _how_ wrong. Arla put a spoon in the bowl and was thankful she'd had a craving for black cherry ice cream that day or she never would have been at the grocery store in the first place.

Putting the container back into the freezer, Arla stole a peek outside and found Tommy resetting the chessboard. His expression was determined and Dean's was triumphant so she knew Tommy had called for a rematch after a loss. All things considered, seeing Dean with a smile on his face and this at ease was a minor miracle.

If she were to be completely honest, the fact that he and his brother were alive was a miracle.

The thought left her almost in tears. Because they were alive and beginning to gain ground and she knew they would be going back out into the fight that had broken them both. A fight that most of the population didn't even know was happening. A fight that had left them without parents. Without a chance for a normal life. A fight that would probably still kill them.

She forced a smile on her face and pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind as she presented Sam with the bowl. He thanked her and wasted no time digging into the ice cream.

Needing to get some fresh air and refocus, Arla said, "I'm going out front to work on the garden for awhile. Anything else I can get for you?"

"No. This is great," he said with a smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Take it easy."

He nodded, attention returning to the bowl of ice cream and she left him to it. Hurrying out the front door, Arla went straight for the garden and started ripping weeds out like there was no tomorrow. She needed something to concentrate on, something to _do_ , to keep her mind off the inevitable.

She couldn't keep them here forever.

She was going to have to let them go.

The _first_ time she'd let the boys go, she'd worried endlessly that the fight would kill them. After what she'd seen and learned now, she was even more certain this could be the last time she would ever see the Winchester brothers.

Putting her energy into the weeding, Arla fought to focus on the garden. She was so intent on her work that it surprised her when the front door opened. Straightening, Arla wiped the back of her hand over her forehead and saw Sam sitting down on the front steps.

He smiled and held up the book she knew he'd been trying, and failing, to read. The bowl of ice cream was in his other hand. She watched him for a moment, but he never said anything. Just opened the book to what looked like it might be the first page and started reading. The sight was as much a miracle as the sight of Dean playing chess with Tommy.

Arla smiled and this time it wasn't forced. Returning to her gardening, she found herself relaxing and the worry slipping to the back of her mind. It wouldn't last, of course. But for right now, enjoying the summer weather and Sam's silent companionship, Arla chose to live in the moment.

* * *

"Sam wants to leave."

Tommy looked up from the corner he'd been backed into on the chessboard. He'd lost track of the time, but they'd been outside concentrating on the game for awhile now without saying a single word. The silence had been comfortable and the game enjoyable.

"He does?" Tommy asked as he made what would no-doubt be a totally ineffectual move. He settled back in his chair and waited.

"Yeah." Dean stared at the chessboard, but didn't make a move.

"What about you?"

Dean glanced up at him, then back at the chessboard. "I don't know."

"Do you feel like you're ready to leave?"

"Me? Yeah. Him?" Dean shook his head. "I'm not so sure."

Tommy could understand his concern. "What's making you question if he's ready to leave?"

Dean raised an eyebrow and waved a hand. "Everything."

"Alright. So you think you boys need to lay low for awhile longer?"

"Yes. I mean...I don't know." Dean ran his hand through his hair, looking toward the lake, then back at Tommy. "I don't know what to do. I don't know if he's ready. If he's going to be able to handle what's out there. But I think he _needs_ to go. We talked last night. When I picked him up."

Silence fell for a few minutes. Tommy didn't break it. Dean leaned forward and moved his rook, backing Tommy into yet another corner.

Once he'd made his move, Dean said, "I'm not sure he's going to get past all of this unless we get back out there. Back to doing what we do."

"Makes sense to me."

"It does?"

Tommy nodded. "You both needed to step back; take the time off to heal. You've patched yourselves back together enough that you're functional again."

"But?"

"But the underlying issues are still there. You're still carrying around all that anger and-"

"I think I have a right to be angry," Dean cut him off, going from accepting to defensive in a heartbeat.

"Maybe so," Tommy said mildly, "but your anger isn't going to help either of you. If you don't get a handle on it, it's going to destroy everything you've been working so hard to repair."

The turmoil in Dean's eyes was unmistakeable. Tommy could see the battle he was fighting. He _was_ angry. And he didn't have a handle on it, although there had been some improvement along the way. The very fact they were talking like this right now was an indication of how far Dean had come. After a moment, Dean nodded but didn't comment.

"Taking care of yourself is every bit as important as taking care of your brother," Tommy continued, relieved that Dean hadn't shut him out yet. "You've been very sick and I'm concerned you aren't going to take care of your own health. You can't be there for him if you're tearing yourself apart."

Shrugging, Dean raised his hands. "What more do you want from me? I stopped drinking, didn't I?"

"Did you?" Tommy asked, watching as Dean squirmed under his gaze.

Dean didn't need to answer the question, nor did he, but they both knew what the answer was. Tommy wasn't sure how he'd obtained the alcohol, unless he'd stopped somewhere when he'd gone to pick up his brother last night. But how he obtained it was less important than the fact he was already drinking again. For a moment, he wasn't sure how best to handle the situation. Dean had been confronted head on about his drinking several times. There wasn't much more Tommy could do at this point if Dean didn't accept the help that had been offered.

They studied each other and Tommy could almost hear the wheels turning in Dean's head. He didn't know what to expect, but hoped Dean wasn't going to get up and walk away.

"I'm trying, ok?" Dean finally said, squeezing his eyes closed and pressing his right hand to his forehead.

"Ok."

Dean opened his eyes and he looked surprised at the response.

"All I can ask for is that you try," Tommy said, hoping to set him at ease.

Addictions of any sort were difficult to break. He'd seen enough in his career to understand the way an addiction was like a never-ending war; a struggle that required constant, exhausting vigilance and was all too often fraught with setbacks and frustration.

For a few minutes, they returned their attention to the game. Tommy wasn't looking forward to continuing the conversation. Dean was already feeling vulnerable and overwhelmed and he didn't want to make it worse, but he knew he couldn't shy away from the facts. If they were planning to leave, then Tommy needed to be sure Dean understood what he was facing. It wasn't merely Dean's drinking that was worrying Tommy. And if they were going to be successful, Dean needed to know, too. So Tommy took a deep breath and hoped for the best.

"Dean, you need to realize Sam isn't fully recovered and he may never be the same."

Dean's eyes widened and he took a sharp breath.

"You need to prepare yourself for the fact that his reactions, how he deals with stress, how he handles situations, may be different than before," Tommy said, trying to be gentle. "If you're ready for it and understand what's happening, he's probably going to be able to handle it better. If you get angry, he's going to shut down."

Dean sat back in his chair, shoulders slumped and everything about him screaming defeat.

"He's made a lot of progress. You both have. But it doesn't mean things aren't going to be difficult for a long time as he recovers." Tommy paused, reflecting on how long it had taken _him_ to recover. Even after all this time, it wasn't easy for him to think -or talk- about what he'd experienced. He took a deep breath, then said, "Sometimes it takes years to sort through everything. There's no set timeline. Everyone's different."

"So what am I supposed to do to fix this?" Dean lowered his voice and waved a hand back at the house. "You sayin' we _shouldn't_ go yet? He needs more help? I don't know what you want me to do. I don't know how to fix him."

Tommy smiled, but his heart was heavy. "There isn't anything wrong with him for you _to_ fix. Thinking about it that way is only going to make it harder on both of you. He's not broken, even if he feels that way. He got hurt. Badly. But he doesn't need to be fixed. He needs to be supported."

"I've been _trying._ "

"I know you have. And it's helped him. You can see that, can't you?"

It took a few seconds, then Dean nodded.

"Good. You just have to realize that you're gonna need to _continue_ being supportive for a long time." Tommy took a steadying breath, then said, "Years ago I was the first responder on scene of a domestic disturbance. It got ugly fast. I lost two close friends that day and a couple kids and their dad died. It wasn't my fault any more than what Sam's gone through is his fault. But I blamed myself for what happened and the guilt, the memories of that day, nearly killed me."

Dean's expression changed and Tommy saw the understanding and empathy that came from enduring similar tragedy. Dean asked, "Did you tell Sam?"

Tommy shook his head. "Not in so much detail. When we were talking those first couple of nights he didn't need details. He just needed to know he wasn't alone."

"How'd you...get past it?"

"A lot of time and a lot of support." _And that's putting it mildly,_ Tommy mused. "It wasn't easy. Arla stood by me through all of it. I know I wouldn't have made it without her. I barely made it _with_ her."

Dean smiled a bit. "She's pretty great."

"Yes she is."

"So what helped you? I need to know what to do-"

"Everyone is different and so are their needs. For me, what helped the most was Arla just being there with me through the worst of it." Tommy took a slow breath then added, "I dealt with a lot of the same things Sam's been experiencing."

"So you...had the flashbacks and-"

"Flashbacks and the panic attacks, yes. I wasn't dealing with hallucinations, but the rest of it, yes. I still have nightmares," Tommy admitted. "Every once in awhile I'll even have a flashback. Haven't had a panic attack in years, but there've been a few times I've been close. If you want to know the truth, I think your brother has been handling all of this even better than I handled what I went through."

Dean took a slow deep breath and nodded. He looked up briefly, then stared at the table as he said softly, "I do, too...have nightmares. Flashbacks. We've kinda seen a lot of crap. And...a few years ago...I went through something...a lot like what Sam did."

His words were halting and unsteady and he paled a bit as he spoke. Tommy remained silent and waited. What Dean was saying didn't really surprise him, but it did surprise him that he was opening up about it.

"I didn't understand it then," Dean continued, still staring at the table, "and that's probably why I didn't realize what Sam was going through."

"You never got any help after your experience, did you?" Tommy asked, although he already knew the answer.

Dean snorted and glanced up at him briefly with a half-smile. It faded fast and he looked back down at the chessboard. "I didn't know I _needed_ help. It was just...something I had to deal with, you know? There's not exactly a support group for people who hunt monsters."

"I suppose not. But you didn't give your brother the chance to support you either, did you?"

"He wasn't exactly-" Dean broke off. The sharpness faded when he said, "It was a difficult time for both of us. Sam was deep into...some stuff that was really bad and neither of us were...well, we barely made it through all of it."

"But you did."

"Yeah."

"I think you're going to get through all of this, too. But you can't keep it all to yourselves. You both excel at hiding your pain and you both know how to keep things from each other and everyone else," Tommy said, catching Dean's gaze, "but that doesn't mean it's healthy. Nobody understands what you've gone through so nobody can help you as much as you can help each other."

Dean nodded, then asked, "So you think he's ready?"

It was a tricky question. Tommy knew Dean wasn't asking it rhetorically. He was asking because he wanted Tommy's honest answer and he knew he would receive it. Of course, the honest answer was that Tommy wasn't any more sure than Dean was. There had been much improvement in both of the boys since he'd first arrived and walked into their complicated lives again. But it didn't mean things were completely fine.

Dean was going to get an honest answer, but it wasn't going to be an easy answer.

"The truth is that I don't know if he's ready," Tommy said softly. "There's no way to know for sure, son. Do you think _he_ thinks he's ready?"

"Yes."

"Well, then I think you're going to have to trust him."

"The other day," Dean said, after a long pause. "At the bar. You said we weren't going anywhere until you thought we were safe."

Tommy nodded, amazed that he was bringing up the conversation.

"So you think he's safe?"

Another question he couldn't answer easily. Tommy considered his words carefully. "Right now, yes, I think he is. I'm still worried about him."

"So am I. But you think he's gonna be ok?"

"I think he's getting there and that, eventually, he's gonna be ok."

The relief was clear in Dean's eyes.

Tommy went on, "And I think, eventually, you will be, too."

Some of the tension drained out of his posture and Tommy could see Dean hadn't expected to hear that. He asked, "You're gonna let us leave?"

Tommy was surprised, but pleased to realize Dean was legitimately asking for his permission. He'd meant what he'd said in the bar although he hadn't figured Dean would care or follow his recommendations. It was a good sign that he was seeking reassurance.

"Yes. I'm going to let you go because I think you're both ready to take the first step," Tommy said with a smile. "But I think you should still lay low for awhile. Get back on the road, get back to your normal lives, but take some more time off before you go back into the fight. It's not ideal, but life seldom is."

Raising an eyebrow, Dean asked, "So what would be ideal?"

Tommy met his gaze head on and said, "Let me put it this way. Trying to drink your problems away, or bury them isn't going to help either of you-"

"That's kind of how we've always dealt with everything," Dean interrupted, attempting for a teasing tone, but just sounding hopeless.

"I know it is. But you want my honest opinion?"

"Yeah."

"I'd like to see you getting help for your drinking and I'd like to see Sam in counselling."

Tommy watched him absorb the statement, sensing his shock. There really was no way to soften the blow and Dean had asked for, and received, his honest opinion. It was what they needed, although he doubted there was any way he could convince them to stay and actually _get_ the help they needed.

Dean shook his head, frowning. It didn't sound like that had been the answer he'd wanted to hear when he asked, "You think he needs more help?"

"I think you both do." Tommy noticed that Dean had skipped right over the part about _him_ needing help. "Do I think he's going to make it, yes? I think you both will. It doesn't mean that it wouldn't be better for both of you to be receiving some additional support."

"He's doing better-"

"Yes. He's not experiencing the panic attacks and flashbacks as much, so it seems like he's coping better."

"But you don't think he is?"

"I think he is to a certain degree." Tommy tried to choose his words carefully. "What concerns me is the way he seems to be internalizing everything and trying to disassociate himself from what he went through."

"That's a bad thing?" Dean's eyebrows rose.

"It's not bad to move on from the traumatic event, to put it in the past. I'm just not entirely sure that's what he's doing. Disassociation _can_ be a helpful defense mechanism, but, if that's the only way he's coping, eventually he may not be able to maintain it."

Dean nodded slowly and said, "He does seem...I don't know. Kind of-"

"Detached?"

"I guess so. He's usually the one trying to talk about crap."

"He's talked to all of us to some degree. Arla told me he opened up to her a little more when they went for their walk the other day."

"Really?" Dean looked dumbfounded. "He did?"

Tommy nodded. "But he may never be able to talk about it in more detail than he already has. Just because he's not talking, though, doesn't mean he still doesn't need to deal with it. If he continues to internalize everything, he's going to struggle to move on."

Dean considered that for a moment, then said, "You're right. I know you are. About all of it. But there's no way...no way he'd...he'd never agree to see anyone for this. And we couldn't really stay. I got through it and he will, too. Maybe he _is_ locking it all down when he should be punching a wall and breaking things. I don't know. But we can't stay."

There was a hint of longing in his tone. At this point, Tommy knew he would stay if he could. And if he could stay, maybe he would actually agree to get the help he needed. Maybe they _both_ would. But they weren't going to stay. So Tommy was just going to have to hope and pray that they would be strong enough to hold each other together.

For several minutes, the game continued in silence. Then Dean asked something Tommy never anticipated.

"If we need help...later on...if he...can I call you?"

"Yes." Tommy didn't hesitate. "Anytime. Anything."

Dean nodded, gratitude written all over his face.

"I have one favor to ask, though."

"Sure."

Tommy had know this day was coming, but it didn't make things any easier. He asked, "Don't leave here without saying good-bye, ok? When you boys are ready, head out. No questions asked. But don't leave-"

"We won't." Dean shook his head. "We won't."

"Thank you."

"I don't known how much longer, though," Dean said hesitantly, tracing his finger along the edge of the chessboard. "He's not feeling great, but-"

"He needs to get moving again," Tommy supplied.

"Exactly."

"You both do. I understand."

"We don't usually stay in one place this long."

"You know, Arla said the same thing about six months after we bought our house." Tommy smiled. "Took her a long time to feel settled in one place."

Dean nodded. "We've kind of always...been on the road. Moving around...I don't know, I can't imagine doing anything else."

"So you're not anticipating ever settling down in one place?"

"Not really." Dean looked at the house and added, "Although I wouldn't mind a real kitchen. I get pretty sick of microwaving everything."

Tommy could understand that, but he couldn't exactly picture either of the boys feeling at home in a kitchen. Who knew? Maybe Dean could cook. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He knew Dean had taken care of almost every other aspect of their lives growing up. He probably _could_ cook.

Returning his thoughts to the present, Tommy realized Dean was frowning and staring off into the distance. "Dean? Something wrong?"

Dean shook his head with a brief smile. "Not really. Just thinking that I'm gonna need to find us a ride since you ditched our car."

His tone was teasing and Tommy returned the smile as he said, "I may be able to help you with that issue."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. The Pacer? It's for you boys." Tommy's smile widened to a grin at Dean's stunned expression.

It took a good thirty seconds before Dean found his voice. "Uh...seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Thought it was for a friend?"

"It is." Tommy nodded. He took great satisfaction in the sight of the kid's pale cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. "It was the least I could do since I ditched your car."

"Thanks." Dean finally recovered, although the surprise in his eyes wasn't gone. "I...uh...I can't...I mean, I didn't know what we were gonna do."

There was so much relief in his tone that Tommy felt a little bad that he hadn't told him sooner. Dean looked back down at the chessboard and, after a moment, made his next move. He was smiling and looked like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Tommy studied the board, wondering how to best prepare his wife for the inevitable departure of the Winchester brothers.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Have a great weekend!**


	41. Chapter 41

**Hi! Thank you all for reading and for the awesome reviews for the last chapter. :) Here's a new chapter for you to enjoy as the new week begins.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 41**_

The ice cream had felt good on his scratchy throat even if he hadn't really been able to taste the flavor. Sam had debated either asking for a second bowl or simply going inside and getting it himself. But Arla had been working hard on the garden and he hadn't wanted to disturb her. So he'd turned his attention to the book and tried, yet again, to read chapter two. At least he'd finally finished chapter one and could remember what had happened.

Chapter two was proving to be every bit as challenging as chapter one had been.

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there attempting to read, but when he caught sight of Arla straightening and rubbing her back, he decided they both needed a break.

"Arla?" he asked, setting the book aside.

She looked over at him. "Yes? Need something?"

"Uh, just wondering if you want to take a walk."

"You feel up to it?" Arla asked, taking her gloves off and brushing a few strands of hair out of her eyes.

"I feel a little better." Sam shrugged. He smiled ruefully. "Not ready to try running yet, but I think I can handle taking a walk."

Arla smiled as she said, "You know what? A walk sounds good to me. I'll share a little secret with you. I hate running."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "I wasn't lying to you when I said I'd been thinking about getting back into it, though. Tommy and I used to run quite a bit before he had knee surgery. It's good exercise but I absolutely hate running."

"Honestly?" Sam smiled. "I've never liked running either."

"Really?"Arla's eyebrows went up. "Why do you do it?"

"I never gave it much thought." Sam shrugged, looking at the treeline. "I feel like I've spent my entire life running. Away from this life. From my dad. From myself. Getting out and running just felt right, you know? It helped. I could escape everything else when I ran."

"Do you think you'll ever be able to stop running?"

"I'm not sure yet." Standing up, Sam walked over and offered a hand. Arla took it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

Brushing some grass off her jeans, she said, "I should let them know what we're up to."

"Probably a good idea."

"I'll be right back." Arla took the empty bowl and the book inside with her.

Sam waited by the front porch steps until she returned. "How'd that go?"

"Went fine."

"He didn't freak out?" Sam asked as they started down the driveway.

Arla laughed. "The only thing he was freaking out about was the fact that Tommy was beating him."

Sam laughed too, relieved that Dean was doing well enough to not be worrying about him taking a walk. They waited for a car to go by, then crossed the street and Sam said, "He takes games very seriously."

"I can tell. He strikes me as the competitive type."

"You wouldn't believe how worked up he would get when we played _Go Fish_ as kids."

Arla smiled, leading the way down a dirt path. A few people were walking along the path, but it was mostly deserted. After they'd been walking for several minutes, Arla asked, "Did Dean play any sports in school?"

"Didn't get the chance." Sam shook his head, not for the first time regretting their abnormal childhood. "He gave up a lot."

"Maybe he did, and maybe he didn't."

Sam turned to look at Arla; uncertain as to what she meant.

"I think you both gave up a lot. I'm willing to bet your father did, too," Arla explained. "But maybe for everything you each gave up, you gained something even better."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think we 'normal' people have it all figured out, Sam?" Arla shook her head, then pointed to a bench just off the trail. Sitting down, she went on, "Do you think that all the 'normal' people who work their nine-to-five jobs and pack apples in their kids lunches have a better life than you do? Are happier than you are?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer her and realized he didn't know what to say. He'd always thought the answer to that question was _yes_ , but now he wasn't so sure. He sat down next to her and stared ahead at the trees.

"Just because you two didn't have an ordinary childhood doesn't mean you missed out on everything."

"No, I get that-"

Arla studied him. "Do you? Look, I don't want you to think I'm discounting or making light of the struggles you two have endured. I'm not. I just want you to realize that sometimes ordinary isn't any better - or worse - than _extraordinary._ It's just different."

He'd never _ever_ thought of their life as being extraordinary. Crazy, and definitely _not_ ordinary, but never extraordinary.

"You two have seen the darkest, most terrifying things." Arla shook her head. "Things I can't even imagine. But you've seen them and you've fought them and you're both stronger for it."

"I don't feel stronger." Sam looked away. He swallowed hard. This wasn't the direction he'd wanted this conversation to take.

"How do you feel?" Arla asked softly.

He took a shaky breath and squeezed his eyes closed. Surprising himself, Sam admitted, "I feel broken."

"I know." Arla's hand was on his arm and he didn't flinch away from her. "I know you feel that way, but you're not. You could be. You could be broken, but you're choosing not to be."

"What?" He shook his head, not understanding what she was saying.

"You chose not to be broken when you called me to help you and your brother. When you handed that bottle of whiskey to Tommy out on the beach that first night," Arla explained softly. "When you told your brother how much you were hurting; how afraid you were. You chose not to be broken when you got out of bed this morning. When you ate breakfast. When you sat out on the porch reading that book and when you suggested we go for a walk."

Arla squeezed his arm and when he looked at her, she was smiling, though her eyes were bright with tears. "You've been choosing not to be broken this entire time, Sam. You chose not to be broken when you chose to keep fighting."

Sam felt the tears running down his face and didn't care.

"You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for." Arla shifted and touched his cheek as she whispered, "And I want you to know I'm proud of you, Sam Winchester."

* * *

Arla wished she'd said it sooner. Much sooner. She should have told him she was proud of him days ago. And she should have told Dean the same thing, too. It killed her to know these two amazing men thought so little of themselves. That they were both so hard on themselves.

That they both felt so broken.

Sam might have been the one to admit it, but Arla knew Dean felt the same way. She saw it in his eyes every day. He could fake it better than Sam sometimes; he'd put on that brash, tough-guy mask and sweet-talk his way out of almost anything. But she could see past the illusion. Could see the pain, the sorrow, the helplessness - the _hopelessness -_ Dean worked so hard to hide.

Watching Sam pull himself together, Arla drew her thoughts back to the current situation. She needed to spend a little time with Dean, but right now, she needed to focus. It hadn't been her intention to get into a discussion like this with Sam. And she had never, ever wanted to upset him.

Maybe it had been for the best, though.

Arla hadn't let go of his arm. He was brushing away the tears and hadn't made any move to pull away. His shoulders were more relaxed now. Even the lines around his eyes seemed to have faded a little. He wiped at his eyes again with his sleeve, then smiled.

It was faint, but he was smiling.

Wiping her own tears away, Arla patted his hand, then settled back, her shoulder just brushing his arm. They were silent for a long time. Arla knew Dean and Tommy would likely be hungry by now. And probably wondering where they were. But Tommy knew how to make a sandwich and Dean trusted her, so she figured they had some time before anyone sent out a search party. After a few minutes, Sam spoke up.

"I never knew my mom. Dean barely remembers her."

Arla waited silently when he hesitated.

"We met her once, which I know sounds really weird." Sam laughed a little and shot her a quick glance. "Long story, but we got to meet her when she and our dad were dating. I think you and her would have gotten along well. You're kind of...what I always imagined she might be like."

Smiling, Arla remained silent. For one thing, she wasn't sure what to say. Time travel on top of everything else? Her mind was having a little trouble dealing with that level of _weirdness._

Sam turned and said, "I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you. Nothing's ever...ever come close. You know? So...uh...thanks. For being the mom I needed."

Arla smiled through her tears as she said, "You're welcome. I'm glad I could be here for you."

"We wouldn't have made it without you and Tommy. Not this time and not that Christmas. You two are the reason we're still alive," he said, holding her gaze for a moment. "You're the reason we _can_ keep fighting."

For a few minutes, they were silent again, then Sam said, "We need to get back out there."

"I know."

"We've got a big mess to clean up." He rubbed his forehead, then sighed. "I don't know how we're gonna do it, but we're gonna give it everything we've got left."

She didn't like the sounds of that, but understood what he was saying. "If you need anything-"

"We'll call." Sam smiled. "I know you guys are willing to help. And that means a lot. If there's something we need that you can help us with, we'll call. But we need to stay away from you if possible. It's dangerous and I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you."

"Sam-"

"But there is one thing you can do for us before we go."

"Anything."

"Can you make some muffins and stuff?" Sam looked like a five year old asking Santa for a remote-controlled airplane. "And maybe those cheesy biscuit thingies? Dean wouldn't shut up about the ones you made that Christmas. I think he talked about them for a couple months."

Arla couldn't help but laugh at the memory. Dean had definitely been a fan. "I can handle that. Any other requests?"

"Well, you made pies, so he's gonna be happy about that." Sam seemed to be giving her question a lot of thought. "Maybe some more cookies. He's getting his appetite back so I'm sure he's going to-"

Arla interrupted him, "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yes. Those are all requests for your brother." Arla nudged his shoulder. "What do _you_ want?"

Sam studied her for a moment, then said, "I want him to be happy. I want him to be ok. That's all I really want."

Arla opened her mouth to protest, but Sam spoke up before she could.

"But, maybe some of those chocolate muffins?"

"Absolutely." Arla nodded, thrilled he'd made a request.

"Thanks."

Sam's smile was wide and lit his eyes. Arla decided she'd bake a hundred chocolate muffins if only to see that smile.

He stood up and extended his hand. "Ready?"

"Ready," she said, accepting his assistance.

Expecting him to turn around and return the way they'd come, Arla was surprised when he continued down the path. His steps were lighter, and he was paying more attention to his surroundings than he had on any of their walks so far. If he kept getting better at this rate, she wasn't going to be able to keep up with him.

Arla smiled at the thought.

* * *

They'd finished in a tie. Dean would have been willing to go for a rematch, except he was hungry. And it had been an hour since Arla had announced she and Sam were taking a walk. It hadn't worried him at the time, and it honestly wasn't worrying him now, either. He wondered how things were going, but he wasn't worrying.

Dean followed Tommy into the kitchen. The older man pulled open the refrigerator and said, "Looks like we're gonna have to fend for ourselves."

"I think we can manage." Dean was staring at two gorgeous pies sitting on the counter. "Look. Pie."

The fridge door closed and Dean looked up as Tommy joined him, extending a fork and setting a container of whipped cream on the counter between the pies. Grinning, Dean took the fork and went for a couple of plates while Tommy cut the blueberry pie into slices. Tommy served up generous servings and Dean topped them each with an equally generous dollop of whipped cream.

"You are so lucky," Dean remarked as they took their plates to the table.

"Don't I know it." Tommy grinned, digging into his slice of pie.

They were still enjoying their pie when they heard the front door open. Tommy looked up and whispered, "Oops."

Dean just ate another piece of his slice.

"Dessert first, I see," Arla said as she and Sam walked into the dining room.

"People who eat dessert first are smarter-" Tommy started.

Arla shook her head and patted him on top of his head. "Keep telling yourself that, dear boy."

Tommy wrapped his arm around her and pulled her onto his lap for a kiss. Dean exchanged a smile with his brother as Sam walked past them into the kitchen.

He looked better, Dean thought, watching him pull a couple bottles of water from the fridge. It wasn't that he looked miraculously healed from the cold or anything, but there was something different in the way he was moving. Something different in his eyes.

Sam was moving like the world wasn't crushing him down anymore. When he sat down at the table and handed Arla one of the bottles of water, Dean realized he didn't look haunted. The fear and anxiety that had become the new normal were absent.

Dean finished his pie while a conversation started around him. Sam was laughing and Dean didn't know why because he wasn't paying any attention to what was being said. He sat back in his chair and smiled anyway. They were all in the kitchen now, moving around, getting in each other's way and starting something for lunch.

Suddenly, Dean understood what Sam had been getting at yesterday.

The scene before him was normal. Perfect. So beautiful it physically hurt. It was the image of what should have been. What never could be. Dean had always wanted this. Sam had always wanted this. It was never going to be theirs.

Dean fisted a hand under the table, fighting down the anger, the disappointment, the sorrow.

Then Sam looked his way and Dean knew he was busted. Knew he wasn't hiding anything from his brother. Tommy and Arla were over by the microwave, teasing and fighting about something and not paying attention to anything else.

Pushing himself to his feet, Dean headed out the back door. He needed to clear his mind. Needed to escape exactly what Sam had been wanting - needing - to escape.

So he walked down to the edge of the lake. He wished he'd brought the bottle of whiskey with him. Running a hand over his mouth, Dean knew it was a problem. Knew he needed to keep away from the alcohol. If not for himself, then for Sam.

And speaking of which, Dean hadn't been standing there very long before Sam showed up at his side. It irritated him that his brother had to make an appearance right now. Sam had been asking to be left alone for days. Dean needed half a minute to think and he couldn't even get that. He didn't take his eyes off the water or start a conversation.

The silence continued for a few minutes, then Sam cleared his throat and said, "I told them we're leaving in the morning."

Dean turned to look at him, not even trying to disguise his shock. "You did? When?"

"Just now." Sam was staring out at the water, hands shoved in his pockets.

"How'd that go over?"

"Arla said we're not going anywhere until after we eat a big breakfast."

Dean snorted and caught a glimpse of Sam's small smile. The smile faded as quickly as Dean's amusement. He asked, "You find a case or something?"

"Or something."

"Sam?"

"We've been here long enough," Sam said, still avoiding his gaze. "You're itching to get going."

Yeah, he was, but Dean had a feeling Sam was even more eager. Shaking his head, though, Dean said, "We don't have to go yet. Until we find a case, we can-"

"I'm ready, Dean." This time Sam turned and met his eyes. "I'm ready."

And he just couldn't say no. Couldn't do anything but nod. Because Dean could see how badly Sam needed to go. Sure, he was still sick and Dean would have rather allowed him a few more days of home cooked meals and mothering rather than to force him to spend hours cramped up in a car only to sleep in uncomfortable, dirty, motel rooms. But Dean nodded anyway.

"Ok, Sammy. We'll go tomorrow."

Sam stared at him for a long moment and Dean wondered if he'd said the right thing. Wondered if he was doing the right thing by agreeing to leave. Obviously, Sam thought he was ready.

Dean just wasn't sure if _either_ of them were ready to get back out there.

* * *

"You took that well," Tommy said as they looked out the kitchen window.

Arla took a slow breath, wrapping her arms around him. "I knew it was coming. Sam indicated as much when we were out walking."

"Dean mentioned that Sam was ready to leave while we were playing chess."

"He did?" Arla turned and looked up at him.

Tommy nodded.

"What did you say?"

"I said I thought they were ready."

"You do?"

"You don't?" Tommy asked.

Arla shook her head. "No, I think they're ready. I guess. I don't know. I don't want them to leave. Sam's still sick and Dean's not feeling great yet either. If he starts drinking again-"

"I know." Tommy rubbed her shoulder, still staring out the window. "He's definitely not completely recovered."

"Tommy-"

"Honey, he's a grown man and he's going to make his own decisions; for better or worse. We can't change that. They both need to go. We need to let them."

Arla sighed and they fell silent as they watched the scene on the beach. The boys were down there standing shoulder to shoulder as they gazed out over the water. As heart-sick as she felt, Arla couldn't help but smile. She couldn't help admiring them and their fierce dedication to each other and their determination to protect the innocent.

When they turned and started walking back toward the house, Tommy went to serve up lunch and Arla started a grocery list. With all the baking she planned to do, she was going to need more flour.

* * *

"Is there anything else you boys need?"

"Uh-" Dean stared at the cart. It was almost completely full. When he'd offered to help her with the grocery shopping he hadn't been expecting her to be filling up the cart with more than just the few odds and ends of baking supplies that she needed.

"Just spit it out, Dean," Arla said, looking up at him with a smile. "You need any bullets? Hunting supplies? Do you both have enough warm socks?"

"Uh-" He followed her down the next aisle; a little overwhelmed by her questions.

"Do you boys eat protein bars? I should probably stock you up on medical supplies, shouldn't I?"

"Arla, you don't-"

She held up one finger and pressed it to his lips. "I don't have to do anything. You're right. But I'm going to do this, understand? I'm going to do this. I can't keep you boys safe once you leave. I can't help you once you leave. But I will make damn sure you have the supplies you need to do your job and to stay healthy. I _will_ be buying you multivitamins and you will both take them religiously. Won't you?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good boy. So tell me what else you need."

Dean heard her voice break. He stared at the cart, then said, "I could use some new socks."

"Good." Arla smiled again. She patted his shoulder and said, "Let's go buy you some socks."

By the time they went through the check-out, the cart was completely full and Dean knew they weren't going to need to make a supply run for a very long time.

He was loading the bags into the car when it hit him that this was the same store he'd run into for Dramamine all those days ago.

"Dean? Everything alright?"

Turning, he smiled and said, "Yeah. Just thinking about how glad I am that you said hi that night."

Arla looked around the parking lot then returned his smile. "I am too. I knew you weren't feeling well at the time but I didn't want to pressure you."

"I was glad to see you. I want you to know that. I really was. I just… I didn't want to get you involved again. And I was-"

"Worrying about your brother. I understand."

Dean laughed as he closed the trunk. "You know I'm still kinda shocked Sam even managed to call you that night."

"I'm very thankful that he did."

"Me too." He pushed the cart back to the corral while Arla got into the car. Getting in the passenger side, Dean said, "I don't think we would've made it without you and Tommy."

Arla smiled. "I'm glad we were able to help. I must say, though, if I ever run into you boys again, I sincerely hope that you are both healthy. I may fall over from the shock, but I'd be very happy."

"We do seem to run into you guys when we're at our worst."

"Yes you do. Next time, how about we just get together for the fun of it rather than because one or both of you needs emergency medical attention?"

"Works for me."

Arla smiled and started the car. Pulling out of the parking lot, she said, "I wanted to tell you something, Dean."

"Ok." He frowned, glancing her way.

"I'm proud of you."

Dean's eyebrows rose. He hadn't expected that. And he didn't know how to respond.

Arla looked at him and smiled again. "I am. I am very proud of you. You have been dealt a pretty downright crappy hand and you've handled it well."

Dean snorted. "Handled it well? Where have you been the past week or so?"

"Right here with you the entire time," Arla said seriously. "And yes, you've struggled. You've made some very bad choices. You've come close to losing it. But you didn't."

"Yeah, I think I did." Dean ran a hand over his face, staring out the window and thinking about all the shining examples of exactly how he'd lost it in the past week.

"Dean, you could have walked away from this entire situation - from your brother - at any time. And I'm talking about truly walking away, not just walking away to catch your breath and regroup. You could have left him in that first hospital. Some people would have. You stayed with him through the worst of the worst these past few days. Not everyone would have done that."

"He's my brother." Dean shrugged. It was simple. Sure, it wasn't _always_ simple. Given the craziness of their lives, things could get very complicated. But they were brothers and that was what mattered.

Arla stopped for a red light and said, "Like I already said, not everyone would have done what you did. But it's more than this situation alone that I'm talking about. I'm proud of you for doing what you do. For fighting so hard for all these years to protect people like us."

Dean shrugged again. "It's my job."

She gave him that sad smile of hers that always told him she didn't think he was understanding what she was trying to say. The light turned green as she said, "People quit jobs all the time. I understand you were raised in this life; that you've been doing it since you were probably far too young to be doing something crazy like this. You may not feel as though you had a choice, but you have always had the choice to quit or stay."

"I did quit," Dean said quietly, staring out the window as they drove. "I quit for a year. While Sam was-"

The lump in his throat cut off the words and nearly cut off his air. He didn't say anything else because he couldn't tell her how he'd spent that year living with a woman he loved while his brother was being tortured. Arla would probably tell him he'd done the best he could, that he'd needed to take the time to grieve, that there hadn't been any other way.

"Dean, you are so hard on yourself," Arla said, interrupting his thoughts as she made a right turn. "You both are."

He tried for a smile. "Dad was a Marine. Being hard on ourselves kind of came with the territory."

"My dad was in the military, too, so I can understand that to a certain extent. I just wish you could understand what I'm trying to say. You _are_ a good man. You make mistakes like everyone else but you haven't given up on the job and you haven't given up on your brother. There are people all over this country who are alive because of you two boys."

Dean kept his eyes on the scenery, trying to come to grips with what she was saying. She did have a point. They _had_ saved people. Sure, a lot of people had died along the way, and sometimes on a job they still lost someone they had gone in to save. He wasn't sure if they'd done more harm than good over the years, but he nodded because they _had_ saved some people. And even if it had only been to save _one_ person, Dean knew he would never have been able to, or ever would be able to, give the job up.

"Thanks," he said, after a moment. It seemed very inadequate. "Seriously. Thank you. For saying that...and for everything else."

"You're welcome." Arla squeezed his hand. "It's something I should have said to you a long time ago."

Dean smiled, then looked away. He didn't believe he deserved the nice things she was saying to him. But it was kind of nice that _she_ thought he did.

* * *

Arla slid the cookie sheets into the oven then headed for the refrigerator. Replenishing her glass of lemonade, she surveyed the scene before her. One more tray of cookies after the ones in the oven and her work would be complete. The chocolate muffins and the _cheesy biscuit thingies_ were finished and packaged neatly. Ensuring she'd set the timer for the cookies, Arla took her glass of lemonade and left the too warm kitchen.

A quick peek into the living room revealed Sam to be exactly where they'd found him when they'd arrived back from the grocery store: on the couch, asleep. He looked comfortable so she didn't disturb him. Checking the back porch, she found Dean was still focused on the laptop and the search for a case.

After helping her carry in the groceries, Dean had gone for the laptop and settled on the back porch. He still had half a glass of ice water, but the cookies she'd given him from the first batch had long since disappeared. Hovering just inside, Arla watched him for a few minutes, wondering how exactly one went about finding a monster.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask. Questions about their parents. Their childhood. She wanted to ask more about what they'd gone through since the first time she'd met them. She wanted to know if there was anyone else out there in the entire world who cared about them. Anyone who cared if they lived or died or if it was just her and Tommy.

But she wasn't going to ask any of those questions. She couldn't. They'd both opened up in ways she'd never expected or even thought possible. They'd both trusted her, and Tommy, with some of the darkest, most painful things in their lives and she did not take that lightly.

With a sigh, she backed away from the door and headed the other direction. Looking out at the front yard, she saw Tommy was nearly finished mowing the front lawn. He'd been working on the back yard when they'd returned and paused long enough to help them bring in the groceries.

Once he finished with the front yard, they went out back for a few games of croquet on the freshly mown lawn while Dean kept at the research and Sam slept. As dinnertime approached, Tommy set up the grill and Dean finally put the laptop aside to assist. Leaving them to tend to the steaks, Arla packaged the baked goods so they would be ready for the boys to take with them in the morning.

A round of sneezing from the dining room announced the fact Sam was awake. She peeked around the corner and smiled as he walked closer, lifting a hand in greeting.

"Hey, Sam." She pressed the lid down on the last package. "How did you sleep?"

"Good." He yawned, then looked at the collection on the kitchen counter. Eyes wide, he asked, "That's all for us?"

"Every bit of it."

"Wow. Uh...thank you."

"You're welcome." Arla sized him up and pointed at a chair. "Have a seat."

He obeyed without protest which was very unlike his big brother's typical response. Smiling, she touched his forehead. "No fever. Feeling any better?"

"About the same." He shrugged. "It's just a cold."

Relieved that he wasn't running a fever, Arla followed his gaze to the back window and said, "We're grilling out tonight unless there's something else you'd like."

Sam shook his head. "Sounds good to me."

"Let me gather the rest of the food and you can help me carry it out."

"Ok," he replied, still staring out the back window.

Arla headed for the fridge and almost didn't jump when she turned around and he was standing next to the sink. If he noticed, he didn't say anything.

"Sam?"

"Is there anything I need to know? To help him?" Sam asked quietly, but urgently. "I know he shouldn't be drinking, but is there more I should be looking out for? I mean...I didn't realize how bad it was. If you hadn't shown up...he probably would have died."

Setting the salad she'd prepared earlier down on the table, Arla could see the concern in his eyes. Taking a quick glance out back, she said, "He might have. Or you might have called for an ambulance."

"I was going to." Sam nodded. "Right before I called you. I almost called 911."

"What stopped you?"

"I didn't know what to tell them. I...I couldn't think straight, you know? All I could think was if I screwed something up, said the wrong thing, I might get him arrested."

"Regardless of what _could_ have happened, you got him - and yourself - the help you needed," Arla said, new understanding dawning as to what Sam had gone through that night he'd managed to call her. "Dean's healing and I'm going to write out exactly what medications he should take and when. He needs to stay away from alcohol and limit the coffee and other harsh foods and beverages. I think he's already figured out the coffee doesn't settle too well."

"How long's he gonna have to stay away from the alcohol?" Sam asked, doggedly returning to the topic that worried him the most. "Because I don't think he's gonna do well without it for much longer."

Arla sighed, but knew he was probably right. She wondered if she should bring up the fact that she was suspicious Dean was _already_ not doing well without it. That she was suspicious Dean had a stash in his gear somewhere and was sneaking sips. Only the fact that she had no proof, just intuition, held her back from saying anything.

"He shouldn't drink any alcohol for at least a month," Arla said, answering Sam's question. "Longer would be better and he should only drink sparingly. Alcohol is going to make the healing process take longer. He's on medications to help heal his stomach, but if he continues to drink, they aren't going to do much good."

"I understand. I'll try. Not that I think I'm going to do much." Sam shrugged with a half smile. "He doesn't really appreciate my opinion sometimes. Especially about stuff like this."

"I know." Arla squeezed his shoulder, sensing how uncertain he was about his ability to help Dean. "Your brother is one of the most stubborn men I've ever encountered."

"You should've met our dad." Sam's smile was a bit wider this time.

Arla laughed and went back to gathering what she needed to take outside. "Stubbornness isn't always a bad trait. It's what's kept both of you alive, if you want my opinion. Neither one of you has been willing to give up on the other this entire time."

He nodded slowly and she could tell he hadn't thought about it that way before.

"So do what you can to help him and realize that if he chooses not to listen to _either_ of us, it's not your fault. It's _his."_ Arla watched him consider her words. He looked so young and scared and she hated that, on top of everything else, he was having to deal with the worry of his brother drinking himself to death. "Sam, it's not your fault if he goes back to drinking, you hear me?"

"I hear you. It's just that he started drinking like this after everything...when-" he motioned to himself, "when I-"

"Dean's responsible for his own actions. Don't you _ever_ think that his drinking is your fault," Arla cut him off. "He is the one choosing to use alcohol to deal with his issues. _It is not your fault_."

Sam looked away, his eyes suspiciously bright.

Arla sighed. She knew she needed to listen to her own advice. There was a limit to what _any_ of them could do to correct the problem. Dean was responsible for his actions and until he accepted that and recognized the consequences of continuing to drink, nothing was going to change.

* * *

He helped Arla carry everything out to the picnic table on the back porch, while thinking about what she'd said. Technically, Sam knew she'd spoken the truth. Technically, he knew Dean was responsible for his personal habits; good or bad.

But _technically_ didn't cover things like failing to save your big brother from hell even though you swore you would. It didn't cover trusting - among other things - a demon. _Technically_ didn't cover things like starting apocalypses or betraying your family or losing your soul.

So, yeah, Sam could agree that _technically_ it wasn't his fault if Dean couldn't step away from the bottle. But in every other way, it _was_ his fault. Because if he hadn't done the things he'd done, hadn't become what he'd become, maybe Dean wouldn't need to drink so much.

Sam felt eyes on him and forced himself to shove all of that aside. He swallowed hard and managed to get what he hoped was a smile on his face. Dean was still staring at him with narrowed eyes so Sam shook his head to tell him it was nothing. After a few more seconds of assessment, Dean seemed to be satisfied and went back to chatting with Tommy. Sam had no idea what they were talking about, wasn't even interested in trying to keep up with the conversation.

He wondered if he should have told Arla that he knew Dean had a bottle and was already drinking again. But what good would that do in the long run? It would only make Arla worry and at least Dean wasn't binging, so maybe he'd learned his lesson.

Feeling a headache coming on, Sam pushed the worry aside, determined to enjoy their last evening with the Penders.

He'd worry about everything else tomorrow.

* * *

Considering it was their last evening together, Tommy was relieved that the mood around the table was lighthearted. He never once felt like he needed to take on the burden of keeping the conversation moving. The food was delicious, the weather perfect, and it almost felt like it could have been any family picnic he'd ever been on.

Of course, since the two young men sitting at the table killed monsters for a living, it wasn't _quite_ the same.

He was getting all his questions answered about which monsters were real and which weren't. The disturbing thing was that so far every monster he'd thought to ask about _was_ real. Arla looked amused by the situation and he didn't think that was fair considering the fact that he was growing less amused and more terrified by the second.

For every monster he asked about, the boys launched into a brief primer on how to kill it. Arla laughed when he pulled his notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket, but Tommy ignored her. He was taking notes.

Lots of them.

With dessert, conversation turned from monsters to places the boys had traveled. Arla joined in and Tommy sort of felt like the backwoods bumpkin amongst the group. Sure he'd done some travelling, and he'd never stop being glad he'd gone to Panama City, but his travels paled in comparison to the others.

It was good, though, to sit back and listen to the boys talking about a simpler, more pleasant aspect of their complicated lives. In fact, the entire evening was so pleasant that Tommy wished he could ignore his worries. Wished he could stop his thoughts from returning to his earlier conversation with Dean.

Sure, the kid had been forced to face the price of his drinking head on, but that didn't mean he'd accepted the fact he was an alcoholic. Tommy had seen enough alcoholics through the years to know Dean was one of the high functioning ones. His ability to compartmentalize his drinking from the rest of his life and his ability to look like he was managing everything well to the outside world was what made his situation so complicated.

So dangerous.

Because Dean truly believed he had everything under control.

* * *

The evening had been nice. Everyone had seemed relaxed and Sam had been acting so normal that Dean could almost pretend everything from the past few days was just a nightmare. And it _had_ been a nightmare. But it had also been reality and he still marveled at the fact they'd survived it.

 _Speaking of nightmares_ , Dean pulled his t-shirt down over his head, then paused. Listening carefully, his heart sank when he realized his brother wasn't sleeping soundly anymore. By the time he crossed the hall, Sam was sitting cross legged on the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. From the door, Dean could see how badly he was shaking and hear his quick, unsteady breaths.

"Sam?" he called softly from where he stood.

For a moment, he wasn't sure Sam had heard, then Dean heard him whisper, "I'm ok."

"Sam-"

"I'm ok." This time his voice was stronger. Sam didn't look up at him, but pressed his fists to his forehead and asked, "Can you...will you just turn the radio on?"

His heart hit the carpet, but he said, "Sure," and turned the radio on low.

"Go to bed. I'm ok."

Dean wanted to offer a reassurance, but he didn't. Wanted to make Sam take a pill and ensure he was going to be able to get back to sleep, but he didn't. The last thing he wanted to do was walk away, but that's what he did.

Returning to his room, Dean helped himself to a generous drink. He couldn't control Sam's dreams. Couldn't control what was going to happen tomorrow. But this? This he could control.

And Dean needed to be able to control _something._

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed! Their time with the Penders is coming to an end, but it is by no means the end of the story. :) Thanks for reading!**


	42. Chapter 42

**Hi! This would've been up sooner...but, in what must surely be payback for the misery I've put the boy's through in this story, I've been down with bronchitis all week and have had about as much energy as a rock. Still trying to get over it bleh.**

 **Anyway! Tissue warning on this one. And go for the chocolate or a pint of your favorite ice cream. Whatever coping mechanism you prefer.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 42**_

He'd set an alarm which kind of sucked because he easily could have slept for another hour or two. But they'd agreed today was the day they would leave. Which meant he needed to get up and get ready to go.

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair and staring up at the ceiling. To be honest, if Sam hadn't been so adamant, Dean would never have suggested they leave yet. He still felt like crap and knew Sam did, too. They were run down, barely back on their feet and the bed was comfortable, the food homemade and the bathroom spotless. The entire time they'd been staying with the Penders, Dean had never spotted a single speck of dirt in that bathroom.

Closing his eyes, he debated setting another alarm for a half hour. It would delay the inevitable, but accomplish nothing in the long run. If he hadn't managed to convince his brother by now, Dean knew there was no way he'd convince Sam to stay any longer.

So he pushed himself up, reached for a tissue and blew his nose. It was getting better, but he knew he wasn't completely over the cold and Sam wasn't even close. All of which sucked because Dean hated piles of snotty tissues on the seats and under the seats and getting all over the car. At least it wouldn't be the Impala that they were contaminating.

Pitching the tissue into the wastebasket, Dean started fishing for clean clothes. It wasn't difficult these days because Arla had been taking care of their laundry and there was always a neatly folded pile available. He grabbed what he needed, stepped out into the hall and peeked into Sam's room to see if his brother had set an alarm.

 _Apparently not,_ he thought to himself, leaning against the doorframe.

For someone insisting on leaving today, Sam didn't look like he was going to be leaving anytime soon. Despite the bright sunlight streaming in from the window, he was sound asleep. He sounded congested even from the doorway and there were at least ten tissue balls scattered around the wastebasket. Sam had started the night propped up on a pile of pillows, but now he was curled up on his side, flat on the sheet; every single pillow and all the covers were on the floor.

Dean sighed because it wasn't a good sign. It was a sign of a rough night and very little sleep. The radio was still on and Dean wished he hadn't walked out the previous night. Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference if he'd stayed, but maybe it would have. Either way, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Leaving him alone, Dean went to take a shower. He'd have to play this by ear. There was always a chance Sam wouldn't be so eager to leave when he woke up.

"Yeah, right," Dean whispered to himself, closing the bathroom door.

He knew, from years of personal experience, that once Sam made his mind up about something, it was almost impossible to change his mind.

By the time he'd finished his shower and shaved and realized he finally looked halfway human again, Dean was focused on one thing alone. Breakfast. Sooner the better.

He peeked in on his brother on the way downstairs and found there had been absolutely no change in status. Rolling his eyes, Dean headed for the stairs. If Sam hadn't been pushing to leave in the morning, Dean wouldn't have set his alarm for seven am. He'd still be sleeping.

"Like someone else," Dean muttered. He perked up as soon as he hit the last step because something smelled amazing.

"Morning, Dean," Tommy greeted him as he stepped out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee. Holding the mug up, Tommy asked, "Would you like a cup?"

"Please."

"Good morning," Arla said, turning from the stove.

Dean smiled, trying to get a glimpse of what she was cooking. "Something smells incredible."

"I'm glad you think so! I'm making an omelette right now if that sounds good." She waved a hand at the counter behind her. "And Tommy is supposed to be ensuring the pancakes don't burn."

"I've got it covered," Tommy said, handing Dean a coffee mug and returning his attention to the griddle.

Dean took a cautious sip of the coffee, then peeked at the omelette. "It all sounds good."

Arla smiled brightly. "Excellent. Would you grab some plates? And the silverware-"

"I've got it," Dean interrupted her, already pulling the drawer open.

It was kind of weird that he knew which drawer the silverware was in, but it also felt nice. He set out four plates even though he guessed Sam wasn't going to be making an appearance anytime soon. Leaving his coffee on the table, he went back to the kitchen to see if he could do anything else.

"Do you think you want to try any bacon?" Arla asked, sliding the omelette out of the pan onto a platter. "I prepared some, but I wasn't sure-"

"Bacon is one of the four basic food groups," Dean said, taking the platter from her. "Of course I want bacon."

Arla smiled, but shook her head. "There are five basic food groups and bacon is not its own food group."

Tommy looked over at Dean from his post by the griddle and ignored his wife. "If bacon is a food group, the other three would be pie, steak and licorice."

Dean could appreciate those choices. "I was gonna say pie, burgers, bacon and beer."

"Well, if we count steak, bacon, and burgers all as one food group," Tommy said, flipping a pancake, "then we'd have a category apiece for pie, beer and licorice."

"The four basic food groups." Dean nodded in agreement, exchanging a grin with Tommy.

They turned and realized Arla was staring at them with one eyebrow raised. "Have either of you ever _heard_ of fruits and vegetables?"

"Rings a bell," Tommy said, piling the pancakes on a plate.

Arla shook her head. "I'm going to ring your bell."

Dean laughed and took the platter to the table.

A moment later and Tommy set the pancakes down while Arla brought out a container of syrup and a glass of water. Dean pulled out a chair, then tried another sip of the coffee. It didn't quite feel like lead, but it wasn't settling well so he gave up. Arla was shaking out pills onto the napkin in front of him and he lined them all up in a neat little row like he'd been doing for days now.

It was a lot of freakin' pills.

So many that Arla had made up a handy dandy little chart for him. It didn't offend him in the slightest that she'd done so. He'd been leaving the doling out of the pills to her. He just took whatever she told him to. Now, though, she sat down next to him and went step by step through the pills and when he was suppose to take each of them and when he would be done with them. By the time she'd finished, he'd eaten one pancake and was reaching for another.

"Does that make sense, Dean? Any questions?"

"No, ma'am. The instruction manual is great. Thanks." He smiled and accepted the index card from her.

Nodding, Arla said, "Good. Now, if you have any questions, you call me, ok?"

"I will."

She seemed satisfied and served herself some of the omelette, then passed him the bacon. After he'd taken a few slices and passed it on to Tommy, Arla asked, "Was Sam still sleeping?"

"Yeah. Made me set an alarm and then he decides to sleep in." Dean rolled his eyes, stabbing another piece of pancake.

Arla smiled. "But you got fresh pancakes and bacon."

"And they are both amazing." Dean waved a fork at the omelette. "And that looks amazing too. I probably should try it."

"You definitely should try it."

Arla served him up a generous portion and it pretty much made up for having to set the alarm.

By the time he'd eaten his fill, Sam still hadn't made an appearance. Dean occupied himself for another few minutes by enjoying one more pancake and chatting with the Penders. When there still was no sign of movement from upstairs, he decided it was time to investigate.

Reaching the bedroom, he found Sam sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Morning," Dean said, trying for a smile.

Sam looked at him, but didn't say anything. It was obvious he felt like shit.

Dean didn't say anything, either. Anything he could think of to say would probably start an argument. He'd been crossing his fingers that Sam would be wide awake and in a decent mood when he got back upstairs. Well, it didn't look like he'd gotten either of those wishes granted.

"We don't have to go yet," Dean said softly, leaning against the door frame.

"Yes, we do."

"Sam-"

"Did you eat?" Sam interrupted, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing a pile of clean clothes from the desk.

"Yeah, I-"

Sam brushed past him before Dean could finish and he turned in time to see the bathroom door close. Dean blew out a frustrated breath. He was trying to be patient. He thought he'd been doing a fairly decent job of it. But the uncertainty of not knowing what mood Sam was going to be in from one moment to the next was wearing on him. Trying to figure out what he was supposed to do or say - or _not_ do or say - left him mentally exhausted.

The shower turned on and Dean looked back into the bedroom. He realized that Sam's gear was neatly packed and lined up in front of the desk. The room was pin straight except for the disheveled bed. Curious, he glanced at the top of the dresser.

The pill bottles were lined up in a neat row. Dean didn't need Sam to spell it out that he wasn't intending to take the medications with him. Dean wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He wanted to go count all the pills and see if Sam had taken any last night. He was betting the answer to that question was a resounding _no._

Deciding there was no point in standing around, Dean went back to the other room to pack his own gear.

* * *

Sam wished the shower had done more to wake him up because he needed to be wide awake in order to deal with everything ahead. He needed to be wide awake to deal with his brother. He'd already screwed things up by not waking up on time. Dean was probably annoyed that he'd set an alarm when Sam had been the one insisting they get up early to leave.

Yawning as he slowly got dressed, Sam hoped there would be a large cup of coffee waiting for him downstairs. He hadn't slept well at all; a fact that he didn't doubt Dean was well aware of. Wiping the condensation from the mirror, Sam wished he hadn't because he didn't like what he saw. No wonder Dean had suggested they didn't need to leave yet. He looked terrible. And he felt about as bad as he looked.

He grabbed a tissue in time to catch a vicious sneeze. Head throbbing, he knew the Tylenol he'd taken just before Dean had walked in on him hadn't even begun to work yet. Rubbing his head with one hand, he leaned against the counter with the other. It was just a cold. Just a stupid, annoying, ordinary cold.

It sucked anyway.

He brushed his teeth then made sure the bathroom was tidy. Steeling himself, Sam opened the door and was a little surprised not to find his brother waiting on the other side of it. He could hear movement from the bedroom and guessed Dean was packing. Sam crossed the hall and shoved his dirty laundry into his gear, then took a moment to put the bed back into some semblance of order. When he'd finished doing every single trivial thing he could think of to delay the inevitable, Sam went to the other bedroom.

Dean had his gear packed and was doing his best to neaten up the room. Sam couldn't help but smile at the sight of his messy, laid back brother, trying to make sure the edges of the bedspread were even and the pillows were all perfectly lined up.

Before he could say anything, Dean caught sight of him and the blush spreading up his ears only made Sam smile even more.

"Shut up." Dean dropped the last pillow down as if it had burned him.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking something," Dean muttered. He didn't look any less embarrassed, but reached out and fixed the pillow anyway. Once it was straight, he asked, "You ready?"

And that really was the question of the hour. Sam had insisted he was ready yesterday and Dean had said ok. Had agreed to leave. But now, Sam was wishing Dean had argued with him. Because if he were to answer the question right now, Sam wasn't sure he would be able to say yes.

So he didn't say anything which was an answer in and of itself.

Dean looked a bit irritated at first, then seemed to realize that Sam wasn't being purposefully obstinate. Some tension went out of his posture and he said, "Sam, we don't have to leave today."

An out. Once again, he was being offered an out and oh how he wanted to take it. They didn't have to leave today. Dean hadn't found a case. Things were quiet on the leviathan front although that didn't mean things weren't happening that they weren't aware of. They didn't have to leave today and Sam didn't _want_ to leave today. But if they didn't leave today, they'd just have to leave tomorrow so they might as well leave today.

"You're thinking so hard you're making my head hurt."

Dean's voice snapped his attention back to the present.

Leaning against the dresser, Dean asked, "How about you share with the rest of the class? What-"

"I can't even finish the book," Sam blurted out.

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Uh, ok. Yeah so what? It was kind of boring-"

"How am I gonna concentrate on a hunt?"

Dean sighed, then shook his head. "For one thing? We're not gonna dive head first into anything. For another, I think you're gonna be fine. I'll pull you out if I don't think you can handle something, ok? I've got your back and I trust you to have mine."

Sam knew he was serious but somehow it only made him feel worse. Because he wasn't sure Dean should be so confident. They didn't know how he was going to handle a hunt. It felt like it had been years since he'd been out on a hunt; at least one where he'd been... _himself_. Yesterday, he'd thought he was ready, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt like he might never be ready.

"Not convinced are you?" Dean asked. He waited for a response but Sam was careful not to give him one; verbal or nonverbal. Shaking his head, Dean said, "How about you trust me on this, ok? I don't know what you're thinking cuz you're not exactly being your usual chatty self, so I'm just guessing here, but you don't trust yourself. Fine. I don't care. You don't have to yet. But you gotta trust me. Ok? That's the one thing you gotta do right now. So how 'bout you let me worry about the details?"

It didn't sound like a terrible plan, actually. Sam had failed miserably, but he had been trying to minimize how much pressure he was putting on Dean. The truth was, though, Sam was having more difficulty than usual handling the details of everyday life. Maybe right now, Dean could handle the pressure better than he could.

"Ok." He nodded.

"Ok?" Dean narrowed his eyes.

"Yeah ok. You handle the details." Sam didn't feel much better, but it was a start.

Dean smiled and grabbed his bag. "Good. So here's me handling the details. Go get your gear. Then get your ass downstairs and eat breakfast."

"Bossy," Sam muttered, walking back to the other bedroom.

"The perks of being the oldest," Dean called out gleefully, following him down the hall.

Sam gathered his gear and looked around the cozy room. Everything neat and in place and-

"You're leaving them here, aren't you?" Dean's question was soft as he came closer.

"I'm leaving them here." Sam knew exactly what Dean was referring to. He stared at the pill bottles and waited for Dean to try to talk him into bringing them.

After a long silence, Dean said, "Arla made pancakes. Come on."

Sam turned, surprised by his brother's response, but Dean was already walking out the door without a backward glance. He hesitated for a moment, then looked back at the pill bottles. He hadn't expected to win that battle. It made it a little easier to breathe.

Leaving the room and the pills behind him, Sam went downstairs and discovered everything was easier when he left the details to his brother.

Dean coordinated everything. He made Sam leave the gear at the front door, then pushed him toward the table. Sam wanted to leave right then and skip painful goodbyes, but wasn't given the option. So he sat down and ate the pancakes Arla had fresh from the griddle for him while Dean took over the burden of conversation.

"We'll just take whatever road we come to first and go from there," Dean said, pulling out another chair and stealing a piece of bacon off Sam's plate. "Don't have a specific destination in mind right now."

Tommy went for a map and started discussing routes. Sam concentrated on his pancakes and tried to block out everything that was going on around him. The closer they got to actually walking out the door, the more nervous he felt about the idea of leaving.

He was torn between the need to get back out into the fight and the worry that neither of them were be ready to go anywhere. Stabbing another piece of pancake with his fork, Sam pushed it around the syrup on the plate and knew he wasn't doing a very good job of allowing his brother to handle the details now. The issue was that, as normal as Dean was acting, Sam could see everything he was hiding just beneath the surface.

The fact remained that his brother had wound up in the hospital twice because of his drinking and he _still_ hadn't stopped. He'd backed off, yes, but Sam couldn't help but think about the bottle Dean was hiding from everyone. How he'd gotten his hands on it, Sam didn't know. But if he had that bottle, and was sneaking sips, the problem hadn't magically disappeared.

And if Dean's problem hadn't magically disappeared, it was no surprise that _his_ own problems hadn't either.

Sam had to admit, though, they were both handling things better lately. Dean wasn't as angry as he had been and his drinking had decreased dramatically. And Sam wasn't jumping at loud noises anymore and hadn't had a flashback in days.

Nightmares were another story.

"Sam?"

He stared at the plate in front of him. One lone blueberry sat in a river of syrup. The pancakes were gone and so was all the bacon. Frowning, he stopped staring at the plate and looked up.

"What?" he asked, realizing he and Arla were alone at the table.

"I asked if you wanted some more coffee." Arla's voice was soft and there was a hint of concern in her voice.

Sam looked at the cup in front of him and didn't remember drinking it, but the cup was empty. He nodded and pushed it forward. "Thanks."

Arla smiled and took the mug. Sam watched her walk back into the kitchen, then glanced around the room trying to puzzle out where Dean and Tommy had gone. The coffee appeared in front of him before he'd figured anything out and he decided maybe he should just drink the coffee and hope his exhausted brain would get with the program.

"Would you like any more pancakes?" Arla asked, standing by the edge of the table.

He really did. But even though they had tasted amazing and he loved pancakes, he shook his head. Maybe it was because he was so tired, but his stomach was unsettled. He ignored the queasy feeling in order to take a sip of the coffee.

Arla sat down across from him with her own cup and Sam forced himself to meet her gaze. He wasn't sure how any of this was supposed to go and he didn't know why his brother, who was supposed to be handling all the details, had left him alone with Arla.

She seemed to sense his uncertainty and said, "Dean was a bundle of nervous energy so I sent him out with Tommy to do something productive and let you eat in peace."

Sam nodded, but didn't reply. It made sense, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

The silence continued and, once they'd both finished their coffee, Arla tapped his hand and said, "Come help me with the dishes."

Sam pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the rest of the dishes from the table. He added them to the stack to the left of the sink and wasn't sure what he should do next. Arla handed him a towel and pushed him until he was where she wanted him. She turned on the sink and they both watched it fill with water while remaining silent. Sam wasn't sure why he was still standing there when all he had to do was walk out the front door and get in the car.

A plate appeared in front of him and he took it automatically and began drying it. He'd dried three plates before the silence got to him.

"I told Dean I was ready."

Arla didn't stop scrubbing the bowl in her hands, but looked up at him briefly.

Knowing she was waiting for him to go on, Sam tried to sort through the knots in his brain and put it all into words somehow. "I _need_ to be ready. I...we need to go. But I don't know if...if I'm going to be able to handle...anything."

"You won't know until you try," Arla said, handing him the bowl as she reached for a glass with her other hand. "I know that's not really comforting. But it's the truth. You boys know you're more than welcome to stay with us as long as you like, but I understand why you both need to go."

Sam nodded.

"What you need to do right now is take this time to get comfortable again." Arla rinsed out the glass. "You need to get comfortable with being on the road, back in motels, back at your day to day lives. You need to get comfortable with each other."

Sam couldn't disagree with her. Things were a lot better, but she was right; they did need to get comfortable around each other again.

"You're both worrying about yourselves and each other," Arla said with a smile, "which is understandable. But the only way you're going to get back to normal is if you-"

"Get back to normal."

"Exactly." Arla turned until she was leaning a hip against the counter and looking up at him. "What you both have gone through isn't something easy to move past, but I know you can."

Sam nodded, staring out the window and trying to believe her.

After a brief pause, he felt her hand on his arm and met her gaze. She asked, "Do you know what I'm most worried about right now?"

Sam's mouth was dry and he could only shake his head.

"I'm worried that neither of you will ask for help when you need it. I'm worried Dean isn't going to ask for help and is going to turn back to the alcohol," Arla said, giving voice to his own fears. "And I'm worried that you're going to lock everything up and bury it."

He looked away from her because she was right. He _was_ trying to bury everything so deep that he might eventually forget about it. So far it hadn't worked, but he was trying.

"Sam," Arla said, squeezing his arm again, "it's no healthier for you to suppress everything than it is for Dean to be drinking so much."

He wanted to laugh because she was basically vetoing their most effective coping mechanisms. But he didn't laugh because, again, she was right. Sam nodded, but didn't say anything as he looked back at her.

"If either of you need help," Arla said, "you can call us."

"I know."

"If _you_ need help, if you need someone to talk to, call." Her voice was soft but her grip was strong on his arm. "I don't care if it is two in the morning or two in the afternoon. I don't care if it's ten times in one day, I want you to know you can call me. Or Tommy. Ok? Please call, Sam. I don't want something to happen to you because you feel like you have no one to turn to."

Sam nodded, feeling his throat tightening with the emotion he was trying so hard to hold back. He was proud of himself for not allowing a single tear to fall when he leaned down to give her a hug. He didn't flinch or pull away when she wrapped her arms around him and drew him closer. All he did was relax into her embrace and realize how much he'd missed human contact. How much he'd _needed_ human contact.

Everything had been so cold and numb inside him for so long.

But as much as he needed the feeling of safety and love that Arla's hug was giving him, Sam needed something else even more.

He needed his brother.

So, after a minute, he pulled back. Arla released him, squeezing his hand. She looked a little teary, but smiled when she said, "Thank you for helping with the dishes. How about you help me carry out the last of the food and we can get you boys back on the road?"

"Sounds good." Sam smiled.

He accepted the two containers she handed him and followed her into the living room. Pausing, he looked around the brightly lit, comfortable, beautiful home and then out the back windows to the lake. He was going to miss this. All of it.

"Sam?"

"I'm going to miss you and Tommy," Sam said, surprising them both with his honesty.

"We're going to miss you boys, too."

"You'll probably get more sleep with us gone."

Arla laughed. "Maybe so."

He held the front door open for her and they stepped out into the sunshine.

* * *

It had bothered him when Arla had shooed him away from his brother. Sam hadn't exactly been Mr. Personality this morning and Dean wasn't sure leaving him was the best thing. Arla had given him one of her looks, though, and he know better than to try to argue with her. So he and Tommy had grabbed the gear and gone out to the car.

Now, fifteen minutes later, everything was packed and Tommy was checking the fluids while Dean stared back at the house.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He turned to look at Tommy as he shut the hood of the car and straightened. "What's up?"

"Give them a few more minutes." Tommy nodded toward the house, wiping his hands on a rag. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Not one word of protest, ok? You need something to get you going till you're able to secure your own funds."

Dean almost laughed. _Secure your own funds_ was a unique way of saying _hustle pool_ and _credit card scam._ But he didn't laugh, and he didn't protest when Tommy handed him five hundred dollars. Because they were broke and he honestly wasn't sure he felt up to hustling anything yet.

A simple _thank you_ seemed so very inadequate, but since that was all he had to give, that was what he gave.

"You're welcome, Dean." Tommy smiled. "You need more, you call. You need _anything_ you call. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Dean folded the bills and tucked them into his own wallet; completely overwhelmed. After a moment, Dean refocused and said, "We kind of ruined your vacation. So...uh what're you guys planning next?"

Tommy laughed. "Well, it didn't go quite like we'd planned, I'll give you that, but I wouldn't say you ruined anything. We spent a lot of time wondering about you boys after that Christmas, and it was good to see you again. As far as our plans go, I think we'll spend some time taking long naps."

"I don't blame you."

"Today, though, I'm gonna take Arla downtown to the Farmer's Market. Get her mind of things. She'll be worrying about you boys."

Dean smiled briefly. "I'd like to say she doesn't need to...but I'm not so sure."

Tommy perched on the hood and said, "You've both got a lot to work through yet. It won't be easy. Not for a long time."

"I know," Dean said, feeling guilty about the bottle he had stashed in his bag.

The few painful sips he'd been taking the past couple of nights hadn't helped a lot, but at least he'd been able to sleep. Tommy hadn't pressed him yesterday, but he obviously knew Dean was still drinking. Dean felt terrible about it considering the Penders were paying the bills for his medical care. But, even though Tommy had confronted him about his issues, he'd never made him feel bad.

Tommy had never made him feel like he wasn't worth the time and effort he'd been putting into him.

Dean had no idea how to convey his appreciation. They heard the door opening, and Dean realized he was out of time. Suddenly there was so much he wanted to ask Tommy. To thank him for. So many things he wanted to tell him. But Tommy was standing up and extending a hand and there was no time left for any of that.

Tommy smiled. "Take care of yourselves, ok?"

"We will."

Dean shook his hand and, once again, found himself wishing they weren't leaving. Wishing they could spend a little more time with the Penders. If they could, maybe they would both stand a chance of being ok. But they didn't have the luxury.

And Dean wasn't sure either of them was ever going to be ok again.

* * *

Arla thought she was doing a very good job. Sure, she'd had to brush away a few tears after Sam surprised her with the hug. But now she had a smile on her face even though she _hated_ that the boys were leaving. Although neither of them had much color to their faces except the dark circles under their eyes, they both looked a little better. Once the baked goods were stashed safely in the back seat, they all fell into relaxed conversation.

Arla was completely surprised when Dean walked over and put his arm around her shoulders. He was telling Tommy a few more tips on how to protect themselves from leviathans. As much as she and Tommy had been preparing the boys to get back on the road, clearly the boys were just as concerned with their safety.

"You ever find something that don't seem right, let us know, ok?" Dean asked, still with his arm around her shoulders. "Don't go near it. You need help, ever, put an ad in the classified in the Lawrence Journal-World, ok? We won't always have these phone numbers so contacting us can be difficult, but we check that newspaper weekly. You need something, take an ad and...uh, I guess we need some sort of code word that only the four of us-"

"Raquel," Sam interjected. He shrugged. "That should work, right?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, say something like Raquel needs help with her roof."

Sam laughed. "Her roof?"

"I don't know." Dean raised his free hand. "You got a better idea?"

"What if Raquel has a vacation place on the lake that she's looking to sell?" Tommy offered after they had been silently thinking for a moment.

"That works." Sam smiled. "Like he said, we check that one weekly. You need something, let us know."

"Thank you," Arla said, returning Sam's smile and feeling a little bit of peace in knowing they could get ahold of the boys in an emergency.

"You're welcome." Dean exchanged a look with his brother. "We should probably get going."

Tommy nodded. "Take it easy out there. When you need to, dump the Pacer. I don't want that ugly thing back."  
They all laughed and Sam took Tommy's hand when it was offered. They shook, then Tommy pulled him in for a brief hug and Sam allowed it. Arla looked up at Dean and saw the surprise and relief in his eyes. He looked down at her and smiled, pulling her into a hug, too.

"Thank you," Dean whispered in her ear as he held her close. "For putting up with me and for reaching my brother. For everything."

She hugged him tighter and whispered back, "You're welcome, honey."

After a moment longer, he released the embrace, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then said, "Alright, Sammy. Let's get this show back on the road."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Cliché much?"

"Shut up." Dean smacked him gently on the back of the head as he walked toward the car door.

Tommy came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her as the boys got into the car. She leaned back against him and squeezed his arms. He kissed the top of her head as the engine started. Arla waved, but gave up fighting the tears as the Pacer pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the tree lined road.

"You can use my sleeve," Tommy said, lifting an arm in front of her face.

She laughed which, of course, was what he'd intended. Sniffing, she turned around and leaned into his chest as he pulled her into a hug.

* * *

They drove without stopping until the gas gauge read empty.

Dean was more than happy to pull off for awhile. It was a bit discouraging how tired he felt after driving for such a relatively short time. Looking for a gas station, Dean glanced over at his brother. Sam was still asleep. He'd fallen asleep about fifteen minutes after they hit the road and something about it was so natural, so familiar, that Dean found some of the worry dissipating.

After talking to Tommy yesterday, his nerves - which had already been fraying - felt shot. He knew his issues hadn't gone anywhere; he was finally back to dealing with them his way. Yeah, it wasn't healthy. He had to admit Tommy was right about that. But it was the best he could do.

However, Tommy raising concerns about Sam had left him uncertain and uncomfortable. He knew his brother and he knew he was making a crucial error by allowing Sam to stay quiet. Yeah, he'd let a few things slip, but he still wasn't talking it out the way he usually did with crap like this. Sam was acting more like him and Dean wasn't sure it was a good thing.

His own words returned to haunt him. _You shove it down, and you let it come out in spurts of violence and alcoholism._ Sometimes he didn't think his brother listened to him at all, and sometimes Dean wished like hell he didn't.

 _I need a drink._

Fingers whitening on the wheel, Dean turned left into the driveway of the nearest gas station. Sam stirred when he shut the engine off. Waiting until he looked halfway awake, Dean said, "Fill 'er up. I'm gonna hit the head."

Sam yawned and waved a hand dismissively.

Dean headed into the gas station, mouth watering at the thought of taking a quick sip. He'd filled Bobby's flask last night and, bottle still safely concealed in his gear, he had the flask in his jacket pocket. Stepping into the restroom, Dean forced down a generous swallow.

Once he was finished, and the flask tucked back in his pocket, Dean left the restroom. He chewed a piece of gum and stopped at the counter to get a cup of coffee. They had plenty of snacks and Arla'd sent enough bottles of water to fill up their cooler. He paid for the coffee and walked back outside.

"Coffee?"

Sam looked up, eagerly taking the cup. "Thanks. You didn't get any for yourself?"

"Nah." Dean grimaced at the thought. The whiskey wasn't sitting so well and the thought of coffee was nauseating.

"Stomach still bothering you?" Sam asked, taking a sip.

"Little bit. You need to-"

"Yeah. Don't leave without me." Sam set the cup on the top of the car. "And don't spit in my coffee."

Dean rolled his eyes. "If I was gonna spit in it, I'd've already done it."

Sam ignored him and headed for the restroom.

By the time he came back, Dean was happily settled in the front seat, radio on, enjoying a molasses cookie. His stomach was unsettled, so he figured one was all he would be able to manage right now. But it tasted amazing and that was what really mattered.

Coffee in hand, Sam crammed himself back into the passenger seat. He hadn't said one word of complaint about the cramped quarters. The car was an improvement over most of the junker's they'd been driving lately. It was clean and didn't smell like...things Dean didn't want to think about. He shuddered, then put the car into drive.

Sam was looking around like he'd lost something so Dean asked, "What're you looking for?"

"Where's mine?" Sam sounded like he was five years old as he pointed at the cookie Dean was munching.

"Napkin. Dashboard. Maybe we need to get your eyes examined?"

"Shut up," Sam said without heat, setting his coffee in the cup holder and reaching for the cookie. Two bites later and the cookie was gone. "Those are incredible."

Dean smiled and shook his head while Sam dug around the provisions in the back seat; presumably for another cookie. After a moment, he resettled in his seat and he had two cookies in one hand and a chocolate muffin in the other.

"Didn't you eat anything for breakfast?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Everything except the bacon that someone kept stealing."

"Bacon, man, bacon."

"Yeah yeah, one of the four basic food groups," Sam said, taking a bite of a cookie. "Didn't mean you had to take all of mine."

"Arla didn't give you more?"

Sam grinned. "Yeah. She did."

"Of course she did." Dean smiled, enjoying the easy banter almost as much as he was enjoying seeing Sam with an appetite.

Accelerating down the two-lane highway leading out of yet another small town, Dean decided, for today anyway, he wasn't going to spoil the mood or the sunny day. He wasn't going to think about business. He wasn't going to think about their crappy lives or the crappy mess that was out there waiting for them. He wasn't thinking about Bobby or Cas or Dick Roman.

Dean was going to think about how good it felt to be on the road with his brother at his side.

* * *

Dean pulled his jacket off and tossed it over the back of a chair as he watched Sam drop his gear to the ground with a thud and then flop down on the bed. They hadn't even been driving that long, but Dean was as wiped out as Sam obviously felt. It was only after six, but they'd eaten a late lunch and Dean decided he was ok with turning in early and skipping dinner. Sam was looking very cozy with his face in a pillow which led Dean to believe he wasn't interested in food either.

Locking the door, Dean flipped off the overhead light and sat down on the edge of the bed. Getting his boots off, he asked, "You gonna sleep like that?"

He glanced at his brother, waiting for a reply. He wasn't going to get one. Dean smiled and pulled back the covers on his own bed. Sam was sound asleep. Hoping he was going to get a solid night's sleep, Dean left him alone and simply rolled over and pulled his own cozy pillow closer. It didn't take very long before he was sound asleep too.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed and that it wasn't as bad as you might have been expecting. There is quite a bit more to come because I seriously do not know how to quit. Sorry! :) Have a great week!**


	43. Chapter 43

**Hi! Many apologies for how long this has taken. :( I've been struggling all month trying to bounce back from being sick and I've been getting about as much sleep as Sam. My brain is in a constant fog so it's taken a lot longer to get this finalized than it should have.**

 **Thank you for all of the reviews from chapter 42...apologies again for not having sent you all a personal thank you. :( As always, your support is much appreciated and I've been greatly encouraged by your lovely notes!**

 **I hope you will all enjoy this chapter...and that it makes up for how long you've had to wait for it. ;) Picks up immediately after where ch 42 ended.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 43**_

He woke up to the blinding glare of sunlight. Cursing cheap motel curtains that never seemed to hang right, Dean turned and pressed his face into the pillow. Of course, that position wasn't comfortable for any length of time, so he grunted in annoyance and rolled to the opposite side.

And found the other bed empty.

Instantly on alert, Dean pushed himself up. One quick survey of the room revealed it was empty. The bathroom door was open and Dean told himself to calm the hell down. Sam had probably gone for coffee. Even so, he tripped over his boots in his haste to get across the room to his jacket to look for his phone.

No messages.

Glaring at the empty bed, Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and tried, again, to calm down. He was so focused on calming down, when the door opened, he jumped out of his skin.

Sam laughed at him, kicking the door closed and holding up two cups of coffee. "Good morning."

Dean glared, but took one of the cups. He collapsed into the chair and kept glaring at his brother. Secretly, he was beyond relieved to see his brother in a good mood and laughing. Dean sipped his coffee as Sam raised an eyebrow and sat down across from him.

"Grumpy today, I see."

"Shut up." Dean grimaced as the coffee hit his stomach.

"You alright?" Sam asked, setting his own cup aside.

"I'm fine."

"Uh huh."

Dean took another sip, then changed topics. "You sleep?"

Sam smiled. "I don't even remember walking in here yesterday. I woke up when I heard some mother screaming at her kids."

"Time was that?" Dean rubbed his eyes and tried to make out the time on his watch. Eyes widening, he asked, "It's ten?"

"Yeah. We've got an hour till checkout. And I think it was around eight when I woke up."

Dean studied him. "Took you two hours to get coffee?"

"I went for a walk." Sam shrugged, then took another sip of coffee. "You want me to grab breakfast?"

"Nah. Let me take a shower. Wake up a little. Then we can grab something on the way."

"Sounds good."

For a few minutes, they sat there silently drinking their coffee. At least in Sam's case he was drinking the coffee. Dean was mostly smelling it and wishing his stomach felt better than it did. No coffee and no alcohol was a pretty strict diet.

Finally, he couldn't take it any more so he set the cup aside and pushed himself to his feet. Sitting there smelling coffee was torture. Grabbing his gear, he headed for the bathroom. He almost told Sam to get the computer and start looking into whatever Dick Roman was up to these days, but then he saw Sam pulling the novel out and flipping through it to the page he'd bookmarked.

Smiling to himself, Dean left him alone and closed the bathroom door.

* * *

Sam had to set the book aside sooner than he wanted to. He'd finished chapter two but he knew he would have to go back and reread the last page because he hadn't been able to concentrate on any of it. Dropping the book on the table, he reached for his coffee and sighed when he realized the cup was empty. The gas station coffee was terrible, but it was coffee and he really should've bought a large.

Seeing Dean's abandoned cup, Sam helped himself. He thought about pulling the laptop out and looking into a case, but dismissed the idea quickly. It was doubtful he would have time to learn anything of significance and it was obvious his brain needed more time and more caffeine. Besides, the shower was already off. It would take longer for him to dig the laptop out and boot it up then it would for Dean to get dressed and demand food.

So he slid the book into his backpack and finished the second cup of coffee. A moment later, the door opened and Dean stepped out in a cloud of steam. He was dressed and looked wide awake and ready to be on the move.

He looked almost back to normal. The shadows under his eyes weren't as dark and his eyes were clear. It was a welcome change. Dean grabbed his gear and Sam could tell he was being sized up in much the same way he was sizing Dean up.

"Ready?" he asked, reaching for his backpack.

Dean nodded.

Following him out, Sam pulled the door closed. They tossed their gear into the back of the Pacer and Sam asked, "So. Breakfast?"

"Yeah. Breakfast." Dean nodded and got behind the wheel.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they had breakfast and would have been well on their way to...somewhere, but Dean remembered he was supposed to be taking medications. Pulling over on the side of the road, he spent a good five minutes digging through his gear for the collection. Sam sat there, eating his breakfast and lining up the pill bottles on the dashboard in alphabetical order. By the time Dean found a bottle of water to wash them down with, he was irritated enough to slap his brother on principle.

He didn't, though, because he was too busy reading the meticulous list Arla had written out for him. Sam was leaning close, peering at the list and then at the pill bottles. It was embarrassing and pathetic how long it took the two of them to figure out what he was supposed to take.

"Hey, at least this is the last dose of the antibiotic," Sam said, helpfully tapping out the final pill. It tumbled onto the impressive pile already on Dean's upturned palm.

"Small favors," Dean muttered, swallowing them down all at once.

Grateful to be done, he remembered the _other_ pill they were supposed to be taking. The one he'd promised Arla they would take. Groaning, he fumbled over the back of the seat until he found the bottle. Shaking two out of the bottle, he downed one, then held the other out to his brother.

"What is that?" Sam's eyes were narrowed and Dean could've sworn he scooted an inch closer to the door.

"Take it easy, it's not gonna bite. It's a multivitamin."

"A what?"

"A multivitamin. You know...instead of taking a thousand individual vitamins, they shove 'em all up in one? Multivitamin." Dean held the pill out again.

"I know what a multivitamin is." Sam rolled his eyes. "I'll pass. I actually eat balanced meals."

Dean wasn't about to let him off the hook. "Dude, she made me promise."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Arla? You promised her you'd take a multivitamin?"

"I promised her _we'd_ take a multivitamin. Look, I don't want her haunting me, so take your multivitamin, Sammy."

He received a heated glare for his comment, but Sam did take the pill. After he'd washed it down with a sip of coffee, Sam said, "She's not going to haunt you; she's not dead."

"Fine." Dean started the engine. "Whatever you want to call it then. She'll come after me some other way."

"You're scared of her."

Dean didn't have to look at his brother to see the smile. He could hear it in his voice.

"You _are,_ " Sam repeated in awe. "You're scared of her."

"You aren't?"

Sam laughed. "No. I think she's sweet."

"You would." Dean shook his head. He thought she was sweet too, but he wasn't going to give his brother the satisfaction of hearing him say it aloud.

* * *

Dean made the executive decision to stop driving just before five in the evening. He'd been driving aimlessly. They had nowhere to go. He probably would've kept going for another hour or two, but Sam had been sneezing and coughing and moaning like a dying man since before lunch and Dean had endured more of that than he wanted to. Yeah, he knew it was his fault Sam was sick - something Sam had pointed out with almost every other sentence - but his patience could only be stretched so far.

He found a decent motel and deposited his brother in bed with half a sub sandwich leftover from lunch, a bottle of Gatorade and a chocolate muffin. Sam acted like he was moments from death until Dean presented him with the muffin. Miraculous healing ensued and the muffin disappeared in short order.

Rolling his eyes, Dean tossed Sam his phone and headed for the door.

Finding a bar within walking distance, Dean spent the next few hours nursing one beer and playing pool. Legitimately. He won some, he lost some, but he did it all fair and square. There was no way he was up to hustling anything tonight. Especially on only one beer. Especially without backup. Walking away with an extra hundred dollars made the stomachache worthwhile, though.

The lights were on when he unlocked the door and stepped inside. A glance at the bed revealed Sam, half-asleep, lying on his side, the paperback book dangling from his fingertips over the edge of the bed. Dean locked the door and tugged his jacket off.

"How far'd you get?" Dean asked, sitting down at the table.

Sam stared at him, then shrugged. The book hit the floor and he sighed. "Finished chapter three."

"Yeah?" Dean leaned down to untie his boots. It had been a funny at first, but by now, the fact that Sam still hadn't finished a book he would have finished in a couple hours _before_ wasn't amusing at all.

"How'd it go?"

Kicking his boots aside, Dean grinned. "We're up a hundred."

The revelation was met with silence. Dean ran a hand through his hair, debating taking a shower or just falling into bed. After a moment's deliberation, he decided he was tired enough to worry about the shower in the morning. Glancing back at his brother, Dean felt a stirring of unease at the way Sam was lying there staring at nothing.

"You ok?" he asked, even though he knew it was the wrong thing to say.

"Stop asking me that," Sam muttered, rolling to his other side.

Dean couldn't help but sigh. He hadn't asked Sam that question in the past two days even though it had been on the tip of his tongue several times.

 _It's ok,_ Dean told himself. _He's tired and sick and crabby. Leave him alone. It's fine. He's fine. No big deal._

But the worry he'd held at bay for a full twenty-four hours sprang up with a vengeance and his stomach twisted. Pushing himself to his feet, Dean grabbed his gear. He told himself it was just so he could get his toothbrush. On his way by, he picked up the book Sam had dropped, set it on the night stand, then headed for the bathroom to brush his teeth.

And if he had a sip or two from the bottle concealed in the bottom of his bag, it was purely medicinal.

* * *

Sam woke up at three AM. His mind had refused to shut down and it had taken him hours to fall asleep in the first place. Now that he was awake again, he knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Three hours wasn't enough, but at least it had been three hours of solid sleep. No nightmares, no tossing and turning.

Shifting, he glanced at his brother and found him comfortable and dead to the world.

Sam closed his eyes. He wasn't an idiot. He knew Dean was drinking. Whatever he'd been drinking while he'd been out at the bar hadn't been much because he'd seemed sober when he'd returned. It had been a good sign, but Sam knew he was hiding a bottle in his bag. It was only a matter of time before his brother was going to fall off the wagon. Again.

Rolling to his right side, Sam stared at the wall. A few minutes passed as he attempted to clear his mind with the hope of falling back to sleep. It wasn't going to happen. Giving up on the plan, he lay there for a few more minutes, trying to decide what he should do. The thought of pulling the novel out and attempting to read crossed his mind, but he didn't dare turn on any lights. He'd wake his brother up if he tried that, and the less Dean knew about how little he was sleeping, the better it would be.

So he dismissed the idea of reading. Pulling out the laptop was another option. He could manage that without disturbing his brother, but Sam wasn't sure what he should do. Start looking for a case? See what Dick Roman had been up to lately? Valid options, yet neither appealed.

After an entire hour of lying there thinking in circles, Sam got up. Sliding off the edge of the bed, he leaned back against it and massaged his throbbing temples. He debated going for a walk. Reaching behind himself, he pulled his phone out from under his pillow and checked the time again. He should wait until at least five AM to go anywhere or he'd risk Dean discovering he'd been up most of the night.

Sighing, Sam rested his head against the mattress. He wasn't sure why he was awake and why he couldn't relax enough to go back to sleep. Running his fingers over the phone, he thought about Arla.

She'd told him he could call or text at any time of the day. It was a temptation. He looked up her number and stared at it until the screen went dark. What would he talk to her about? Nothing. He didn't have anything to say. To anyone.

Pushing himself to his feet, Sam decided he was going to take his chances on sneaking out because if he sat here any longer, he was going to go crazy. Moving as quietly as he could, he dressed by the light filtering in around the blinds. Mentally congratulating himself for not waking his brother with his movements, Sam pocketed his phone and pulled on his jacket.

He spared one quick glance over his shoulder and was relieved to see Dean still soundly sleeping. Crossing his fingers he would stay that way for a few more hours, Sam slipped out the door and carefully locked it behind him.

The morning air was chilly but not cold. For a few moments, he stood on the sidewalk in front of the room; uncertain as to what he planned to do now after leaving the confines of the motel room. There weren't a lot of options; it wasn't even four-thirty yet.

Looking up and down the street, he decided his options included taking a long walk to nowhere or camping out at the twenty-four hour truck stop diner. The walk held promise because walking helped clear his troubled mind. Running would be even better but he didn't feel up to taking a run right now. He was still half asleep and had about as much energy as a rock. With his luck he'd trip over his own feet and wind up falling on his face.

On the other hand, if he went to the diner and bought a cup of coffee, he'd be in trouble later. As tired as he was right now, he knew he would have to wait on the coffee because if there was one thing he'd learned along the way, it was that caffeine only lasted so long. After a certain number of cups, one became immune to it. And he didn't dare become immune to it this early in the morning.

Sighing, he turned away from the diner and decided he'd take a walk and at least kill an hour before he gave up and started caffeinating for the day ahead.

The cool morning air helped clear his head and he started feeling better the longer he walked. There wasn't anywhere interesting to go in the dreary small town, but there weren't many cars on the road and it was peaceful. A nice contrast to the inside of his head where nothing was ever quiet or peaceful anymore.

At least he wasn't hearing the devil's voice anymore. The _memories_ of what the devil had said -had done- though, those still played on a near constant loop in his brain no matter how he tried to drown them out or forget them. He was beginning to realize this was not going away. Maybe ever.

Picking up the pace, Sam shoved the memories down as best he could. If he couldn't erase them or forget them, he was going to have to find a way to at least ignore them. They were back on the road. Life was back to normal. Things were going well and the last thing he wanted was to do anything to threaten their chances of putting this entire fiasco behind them.

Dean would move on if he would.

Dean _could_ move on.

Sam wasn't as confident about his own ability to do so.

* * *

Dean woke up to an empty room yet again. There was a degree of panic that rushed through him when he saw the second bed was empty, but it wasn't quite as bad as it had been yesterday. He rubbed his eyes and blinked at the clock.

 _Early. Too early._

Groaning, Dean pulled a pillow over his face and tried to go back to sleep. It was a useless endeavor, though. He shoved the pillow aside and pushed himself upright. Deciding he might as well get ready for the day while he waited for his brother to return, Dean headed for the bathroom and a shower.

The shower eased the knots out of his muscles, but did nothing for the knots in his brain. Because it was ten minutes after five in the morning and Sam wasn't in bed. Wasn't in the room. A long time ago, it wouldn't have been unusual. Sam was always an early riser and him being out on a run at this hour wouldn't have phased Dean before. He would have rolled over and fallen back to sleep for another couple of hours. But now, after everything, Dean wouldn't be able to get back to sleep and he couldn't stop worrying.

He wiped the shampoo out of his eyes and wondered if his brother had slept at all. They'd both slept well the previous night, but finding Sam out of the room this early today wasn't a good sign. It could be nothing, or it could be the turn for the worse that Dean couldn't pretend he wasn't expecting.

By the time he was finished and dressed, he was still worried, and still missing one little brother. Annoyance and worry began to war in his mind. Checking his phone, he managed to allay both of them when he saw Sam had texted that he was picking up breakfast and would be back soon.

Dean spent a few minutes packing up his gear, then he pulled Bobby's flask from his jacket pocket. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, he took a long sip. It burned and he wondered if he was ever going to be able to take a drink without pain. He knew he should stop. It was stupid and it hurt, but he _couldn't_ stop.

He needed it.

So he took another drink and, of course, it was at that moment Sam decided to walk into the room. Dean looked up, nearly spilling the entire thing in his haste to hide it. Sam paused in the door and it was obvious he knew exactly what was going on, but he didn't say anything. He just put the coffee cups and food down on the table and pulled back a chair. Dean twisted the cap on the flask and put it back in his pocket. He stood up and joined his brother at the table.

Sam didn't look at him and seemed unnaturally interested in his breakfast sandwich. Dean didn't bother trying to start up a conversation. Because right now they had an uneasy truce. Sam wasn't asking him about his drinking and Dean wasn't asking why Sam hadn't slept at all last night.

He'd considered offering Sam the keys today to see if he'd be willing to start driving again. But now that he was getting a good look at his brother, he cancelled those plans. From the shadows under his eyes, Dean had a pretty good idea that whatever sleep Sam had gotten, if he'd gotten any, hadn't been enough. Dean hadn't heard anything last night; hadn't noticed Sam having a nightmare. But he knew what it looked like when someone had a good night's sleep.

And Sam didn't look like that.

He also didn't look like he wanted to talk, so Dean just ate his breakfast.

When they were both finished, Sam broke the silence. "There's a classic car show today. Town about forty minutes from here. Some guys were talking about it at the cafe."

Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam was staring at the table and Dean wasn't sure what to make of the comment.

"We don't have to," Sam said, brushing a few crumbs off the edge of the table.

"Let's go." Dean felt a little better when Sam looked at him. "What else have we got to do today? Let's go look at cars, but I'm telling you right now if there's an Impala-"

"I know. You'll cry."

Dean snorted and tried to look irritated, but it was difficult because Sam looked amused and it was rare to see him looking anything but pensive or exhausted these days. So Dean gave up the fight and said, "I'm not gonna cry."

Sam just smiled even wider as he started cleaning up the trash. "What if it's a black, '67 Impala?"

"I might cry." Dean threw a crumpled up napkin at his brother's face, enjoying the sound of Sam's laughter.

* * *

"Here you go, babe," Tommy sat down on the edge of the bed.

Arla took the mug of tea with a smile. "Thank you."

"How're you feeling?"

"Better."

"You sound better."

Arla took a sip of the tea then said, "The congestion isn't so bad today."

"You weren't coughing as much last night."

"That's the magic of cough syrup with codeine, dear." Arla patted his cheek, then caught a sneeze in the crook of her arm.

"Bless you." He handed her a tissue.

"Thanks. Any word from the boys?"

"No."

"I suppose it's to be expected," Arla said, taking another sip of tea. "I wish they would be willing to stay in touch. We could-"

"We could get ourselves killed," Tommy interrupted her. He knew where she was coming from and it wasn't that he didn't feel the same way. Because he did. "I want to be there for them, too. But I don't want anything to happen to you. To our family. We did everything we could to take care of them and I'd say we succeeded in putting them back together enough for them to get back on the road. But we aren't hunters, we don't know the things they, or other people who have lived that life, know."

"You have an entire notebook filled with information! We know how to kill a Wendigo, how to free a troubled spirit, and Dean told me how to hurt a leviathan."

Tommy laughed, then handed Arla another tissue as she sneezed again. "All of which is valuable information. However-"

"I know, I know." Arla waved her hand, then pitched the crumpled tissue over his shoulder. She hadn't gotten a single tissue into the basket yet. Tommy didn't even bother picking the tissue piles up until the end of the day.

Still smiling, Tommy said, "On to another topic."

Arla stared at him over the mug. She took a sip, then asked, "What topic?"

"The topic of where we're going for our vacation."

She laughed. "This was our vacation."

"This was _supposed_ to be our vacation." Tommy shook his head. "I'm thinking we deserve another vacation in a couple months. Gives us time to make plans. Where do you want to go?"

For a moment, she was silent, considering. Then she smiled and asked, "Do you think the boys hunt monsters internationally?"

"Uh...I don't know. I never asked."

"Then let's go to Tahiti, ok?" Arla coughed into her sleeve."That seems like an awfully long way for them to go to hunt monsters, doesn't it?"

Tommy laughed, but she had a good point. "I like this plan. Does this mean you'll pack your bikini?"

Arla grabbed his collar and pulled him closer. Her eyes were bright, not with fever, but with passion. She tugged on him until she could whisper in his ear, "What if I forget to pack my bikini? What if the only swimsuit I pack is my birthday suit?"

"I can help you forget to pack your bikini." Tommy grinned, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek as she relaxed into the pillows.

"Good. Because I'm not packing your suit, either." Arla set the cup of tea aside and undid the top button on his shirt as she studied him. "You know, we should probably make sure your birthday suit still fits before we go all the way to Tahiti."

She finished undoing the buttons and started pulling his shirt off as he said, "It's a little more wrinkly than it used to be."

"I never did like ironing," Arla said, drawing him closer.

"No, no you didn't."

"Get back in bed, you crazy man. It's our last day of vacation."

Slipping his jeans off, Tommy said, "I do have one confession to make."

Arla stared up at him with an indulgent smile. "You're trading me in for a newer model?"

"Absolutely not." He climbed back into bed and wrapped his arms around her. "I think I'm coming down with your cold."

She laughed and Tommy didn't know how life could possibly get better.

* * *

Sam stared at the beer Dean was holding out to him. He wasn't sure if he should take it or not. The last time he'd had any alcohol had been the first night he'd stayed with the Penders. It had been a stupid idea then and he wasn't so sure it wasn't a bad idea tonight.

He took the bottle anyway.

Dean nodded and popped the top on his own bottle.

Sam didn't like the fact Dean was drinking, but at least he was only on his first beer. Other than the periodic sips of whatever he had in Bobby's flask, it did seem like he was holding things in moderation. And at least he wasn't hiding it as much. It was some sort of improvement, anyway.

"You gonna drink that or just stare at it all night?"

Glancing to his right, Sam saw that Dean was leaning back and studying the stars. Sam opened his bottle of beer and took a cautious sip. He decided he probably shouldn't finish the bottle. The last thing he needed right now was to lose control. It took all his concentration every single minute of every single day to maintain control.

It had been a good day. The car show had gone well and he was rather proud of himself for suggesting it. And for surviving it.

There had been a few times when he hadn't been sure he would survive. Too many people, too much noise. He didn't know why any of that would bother him, but weird things bothered him now. Dean had stayed next to him the entire time and Sam knew his brother had sensed his anxiety. He hadn't commented on it, though, merely chatted endlessly about the cars. Sam couldn't have cared less about any of it, but he'd latched onto every word his brother said because he needed to stay focused.

And eventually, he'd been able to relax enough to enjoy himself. The cars weren't the important thing to him, of course. Seeing his brother happy and seeming more like himself than he had in a very long time had been what made it all worthwhile.

"I ate too much," Dean said, interrupting his thoughts.

"I don't think I've _ever_ heard you say those words." Sam shook his head and smiled. He was relieved that Dean had regained his appetite even if the junk food he'd consumed today would probably have Arla in tears.

Dean flopped backwards into the grass and rested the beer bottle on his chest. "It all tasted so good."

Sam snorted. "It was greasy. Everything you ate. I can almost hear your arteries clogging."

"Whatever, _Mr. I-need-another-funnel-cake."_

"I only ate two."

Dean held up three fingers.

Frowning, Sam thought back and realized his brother was right. He _had_ eaten three. Deciding to drop the subject, he took another cautious sip of the beer.

"We're gonna need to find a motel," Dean said, staring up at the sky and running his thumbnail along the label of his beer.

Sam couldn't argue with that. There was no way _either_ of them could sleep in the Pacer. Sure, he'd been catching plenty of sporadic naps as Dean had been driving, but that was a far cry from actually trying to spread out like they could do in the Impala.

"So you ready to go?" Sam asked, watching his brother watch the sky.

"Not yet. Unless you-"

"I'm in no hurry."

Dean smiled.

Sam took another drink and followed his gaze. It was a warm night with a cool breeze. A perfect night to sit out and study the stars. It felt comfortable and normal and Sam couldn't help but smile, too.

He hadn't felt this good in weeks.

* * *

 _The next day_

"You find something?"

"Maybe." Sam didn't look up from the computer.

Dean grabbed a fry and settled back in the chair to wait. They'd both been keeping their eyes open for a case, but he had to admit he hadn't been looking very hard. He knew they needed to find something, soon, and get back at it or it would just get more difficult every day. Even so, Dean hadn't been putting a lot of effort into it. He knew Sam _had_ been, but since Sam was still struggling to concentrate, it had been slow going.

"It's...well, it might be a haunting." Sam was staring at the laptop screen with a frown. Dean wasn't sure if he was getting another headache or if he just was working that hard to stay focused. "Weird noises. Flickering lights-"

"Cold spots?" Dean asked, reaching for another fry.

"What?"

Sam looked up and Dean regretted interrupting him. It wasn't anywhere near as pronounced as it had been, but if he got thrown off for any reason, it was difficult for him to get back on topic. Dean had been trying to be careful about such distractions. Holding his breath, Dean held his brother's gaze, waited, and hoped for the best. After a second or two, Sam looked back at the computer.

"I'm not sure," he continued as if he'd never been interrupted. "About the cold spots. Nothing's mentioned in the article. And, I mean, it could be nothing but..."

"Let's check it out," Dean said, when Sam's voice trailed off and he looked up again.

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Why not? You said it was a few hours from here?"

Sam went back to peering at the computer. "About that."

"Ok. My social calendar is open; let's go."

"Ok." But he didn't sound sure.

"Sammy, I need to shoot something." Dean felt a little better when Sam smiled and rolled his eyes. He went on, "It sounds like a case. We should check it out."

"You want to-" Sam started to push the laptop closer.

Knowing Sam wanted him to confirm whether or not it was a case, Dean pushed it closed and said, "I don't need to. Eat your lunch."

For a moment, he thought Sam was going to argue. But he simply nodded, pushed the laptop aside and ate his sandwich. Dean smiled and helped himself to more fries.

* * *

Sam set the third book aside. He was making tremendous progress, he thought sarcastically. Hoping Dean was having more success, Sam reached for the last book on his stack. A dull headache had begun to throb the very moment he'd awakened this morning. It wasn't getting better and he planned to grab some Tylenol as soon as he got back to the motel room.

Checking his watch, he knew he'd have to walk if he intended to leave now. Dean had explicitly stated he wouldn't return anytime soon. Knowing Dean was doing most of the work, Sam decided he wouldn't bother his brother if he needed to leave. He could walk a few blocks. But he wasn't going anywhere right now. Shaking his head, Sam turned his attention to the genealogy book and got back to work.

He opened the book, then nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a thud behind him. Turning to look, Sam realized someone had dropped a heavy book on another table. He tried to laugh about it. To roll his eyes at his jumpiness. But he couldn't do either.

Because the thump reminded him vividly of the last time he remembered being in a library. The time the devil had made him watch as the surrounding patrons had smashed their heads against tables. Skin crawling at the memory, Sam turned back to the book in front of him and tried to ignore the nausea rising up his throat. The words blurred and his heart was thumping too fast and too hard beneath his ribs. A loud hum filled his ears as he stared at the book, feeling lightheaded. He didn't see the book, though. All he saw was blood and gore on every side.

The hum continued, but the sounds of heads repeatedly bashing against the tables around was louder. It was a memory - a flashback - and he was aware enough to understand the concept. What he was having trouble with was tuning it all out and pulling himself from the nightmare. Sweat trickled down his face and the back of his neck.

"It's fine. Nothing's happening," he whispered.

No matter how he tried to believe it, he couldn't. Blinking furiously, Sam tried to take slower, deeper breaths. To calm his racing heart. He shoved a shaking hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

And dropped it.

"Damn it!"

He'd said it louder than he'd intended to but no one around him seemed to notice. Still cursing, this time under his breath, Sam leaned down and grabbed the phone. Leaning over and then straightening up left him with black spots in his vision. It took a few seconds for them to clear, then he was stumbling to the back hallway and the bathrooms.

The hall was empty and so was the bathroom. Sam reached the first sink and turned it all the way up, splashing a generous amount of water on his face. The phone hit the floor again as he fought the urge to throw up. It took a few more splashes of water for the urge to fade. His strength faded with it and he followed the phone to the floor.

Sitting with his back to the wall, Sam pressed his hands to his head as the panic began to ease. Listening to the running water helped wash away the sound of human flesh striking hardwood tables. His heart rate returned to normal and he was left with nothing but overwhelming exhaustion. Fingers pressed to his aching head, he concentrated on the running water and attempted to pack the memories away. It happened months ago. It hadn't been real. The devil was gone and he was cured.

The phone vibrated next to his leg and Sam almost hit his head on the edge of the sink as he jumped in surprise at the too loud sound. Heart pounding again, he reached for the phone with shaking hands.

Dean.

Of course. And he was calling not texting. Sam wavered, attempting, yet again, to get himself under control. If he didn't answer, he could text back right away and tell Dean he couldn't talk because you were supposed to be quiet in a library. It was a good plan. One that his brother would probably buy.

Another few seconds passed as he stared at the phone. Dean's call must have gone to voicemail but he called again immediately. Sam swallowed hard, telling himself to just send a quick text to stop Dean from calling over and over. It would be simple. But, simple as the solution was, he realized he _needed_ to talk to his brother. So he reached up, turned the sink off and answered the call.

"Dude. Where the hell are you?" Dean's voice was oddly hushed.

Sam tried to keep his voice from shaking as he said, "I'm at the library."

"Yes, genius. I know. But _where?_ I found your stack of books. Where are you?"

Mentally cringing, Sam pushed himself to his feet, clinging to the edge of the sink with one hand. "Ran to the bathroom. Why're you here already?"

"Wow. Thanks. Nice to know you miss me when I'm gone." Dean sounded a bit annoyed and a bit amused. "I'm done. Apparently I'm more efficient than you are."

The call disconnected and Sam counted all his blessings twice. Shoving the phone into his pocket, he grabbed a paper towel and mopped up the water that was still dripping off his face. His collar was wet which wasn't good since there was no chance Dean wouldn't notice. But there wasn't anything he could do about it now.

A reluctant glance in the mirror showed that he looked as terrible as he felt. Another thing Dean wouldn't be liable to miss. And another thing he couldn't do anything about. So Sam pitched the paper towel at the trash can and hoped for the best.

Returning to the table where he'd been attempting to do the research they needed, Sam found his brother flipping through the book on the top of the stack. The one _he'd_ been attempting to read when everything had spiraled out of control. Dean glanced up at him briefly, then did a double-take and Sam knew he wasn't hiding anything. Sam expected a comment, but Dean surprised him.

"You got anything?" Dean asked, tapping his knuckles against the book.

"Not much." Sam kept his voice softer than was necessary because if he spoke too loud, his voice was going to shake.

"Yeah, well sometimes you can't get everything you need from a book." Dean grinned and looked very pleased with himself. "Let's get outta here and I'll tell you on the way."

More than happy to leave the library and all the unwanted memories behind, Sam kept his mouth shut and followed Dean to the front door.

* * *

To say he was disappointed would be an understatement.

Devastated would be more accurate.

Dean hadn't expected anything to go wrong in a freakin' library. But now he was facing the reality that there might be _no_ place Sam would be safe from the memories. From the nightmares. And that thought was enough to give _Dean_ nightmares.

When he'd found the stack of books, he hadn't been worried. Assuming Sam had gone to hunt down another volume, Dean had called him mostly to be annoying. Everything changed when he caught sight of his brother.

Sam hadn't been searching for another book. Dean wasn't sure what he _had_ been doing, but he looked shaken and pale. Instead of asking what happened, though, Dean just pushed past the situation entirely and led the way out the door.

Afternoon sunlight warmed his skin as he walked to the car, forcing himself not to look over his shoulder at his brother. Dean's mind was in turmoil. As usual, he didn't know what to do. Or what to say. Considering the last time he'd asked how Sam was doing he'd been dismissed, he wasn't sure he should try it again even though something obviously was wrong.

"So what did you find out?" Sam's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Glancing at his brother over the top of the Pacer, Dean felt a bit of the worry fade. Sam had pulled himself together in the short walk to the car and didn't look shaky or uneasy anymore. He just looked tired. And like he needed something to focus on that wasn't whatever had happened in the library.

Relieved, Dean pulled the car door open and launched into a detailed discussion of what he'd found out at the police station and his canvas of the neighborhood around the house they suspected was haunted. Sam latched onto the discussion quickly and eagerly and they began making plans for eliminating the disgruntled spirit who lived in the downstairs coat closet of a very normal suburban family.

By the time they returned to the motel, the memory of whatever had occurred back at the library was the last thing on Dean's mind. Sam seemed one hundred percent fine and they were busy with preparations for the hunt.

As the evening progressed, Dean was so caught up in planning for the hunt and packing their gear that it didn't take long for him to completely forget what had happened earlier. It would be days later before he would realize he shouldn't have been so quick to ignore the situation.

It would be days later before he would regret not having paid more attention to the signs.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! More to come... I'll try not to take so long! :D**


	44. Chapter 44

**Hello! Happy Friday! :) I'm happy to report I'm finally feeling back to normal (or whatever is normal for a writer anyway). Here is the latest chapter, hope you will enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 44**_

It had been relatively simple...as hunts went. They'd both made it out without an injury. And _he'd_ managed the entire hunt without an issue. Sam couldn't help but smile as they arrived back to the motel. Even if Dean did cheat and take the first shower.

Their first hunt had been a success. No casualties. No injuries. He couldn't have asked for anything more.

Sam started cleaning the guns while Dean took his shower. The very act of cleaning the guns was soothing. Relaxing. It helped him focus. Everything was getting easier. They'd fallen into old habits and, for the most part, he'd been able to concentrate on the research for the hunt. Before they'd left, though, he'd insisted Dean check his work to ensure he hadn't missed anything.

He hadn't and it had been as comforting to him that Dean had checked to make sure he'd done everything right as it was to know he _had_ done it all right.

Of course, now that he was thinking about it, his mind was going places he didn't want it to go. Because thinking about the fact everything had gone well and he'd done everything right only made him focus on the fact that it was a _surprise_ he'd done it all right. And once he started down that line of thinking, all he could think about was all the reasons it had been a surprise he'd done it all right.

His heart started racing and he had to put the gun down because his hands were shaking. Closing his eyes for a moment, Sam focused on his breathing and it was a relief when the moment passed without developing into a complete freak-out.

Opening his eyes, Sam pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his phone and left the room for some fresh air. He sat down on the curb and stared out to the left of the motel where a small flower garden grew in front of the motel office. He thought of Arla working in the garden and found himself missing her. The temptation was there to call her or at least text her, but he didn't. She would answer, he had no doubts. He'd sent her and Tommy a quick _thank you_ text while they'd been at the car show. But it was time to let her go. It was dangerous to stay in contact with the Penders as much as he desperately wanted to. As much as he felt like he _needed_ to.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Dean was standing in the doorway, dressed only in his jeans, hair dripping. He frowned and asked, "Uh...you gonna...get dinner?"

Sam smiled, knowing Dean was trying to cover for the fact he'd been worrying. Pushing himself to his feet, Sam said, "I can."

"Yeah. Uh...ok. You got cash?" Dean ran a hand through his hair, his frown fading.

"I do. What do you want?"

"You know what? Let's go to that Irish pub."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. They got food," Dean said, walking back into the room. "We did this one quick. It's still early. Let's go out."

Following him, Sam asked, "You really want to go out for dinner?"

"Sure. Why not?" Dean pulled on a shirt. "We can shoot some pool after. Hang out at the bar."

Sam took a deep breath. He wasn't sure he was ready to hang out at a bar. But he could see the guarded hope in his brother's eyes and wasn't about to let the evening fall apart now. So he nodded.

"Really?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled. Maybe he wasn't ready, but he decided it was time to _get_ ready. It was time to spend an evening out with his brother and take another step toward normal. "Let's go."

He knew he'd said the right thing when Dean grinned.

* * *

Two days after they'd gone out to the bar, Sam had a panic attack.

Dean hadn't expected it at all. Things had been going so well. They'd been more relaxed, more comfortable and Dean had dared to hope they'd put everything behind them.

He shouldn't have been so stupid.

In the aftermath, he'd spend a lot of time wondering why it had happened seemingly out of nowhere. Maybe they'd pushed too hard. Moved too fast. Maybe the hunt had been too much too soon. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with the hunt. Maybe Sam was just getting that much more accomplished at hiding how bad things were under the surface. Maybe it had to do with the fact they were both pretending nothing had happened that day at the library. Pretending Sam was sleeping and pretending Dean wasn't drinking as much as he was.

Pretending they were both fine.

It was early afternoon when Dean found a decent looking diner for a late lunch. They were halfway through lunch and Sam was in the middle of telling him the historical significance of the insignificant little town they'd passed through earlier when it all went wrong.

Dean was enjoying his burger and mostly succeeding in tuning his brother out when he realized there was nothing for him _to_ tune out. Frowning, he lowered his burger and narrowed his eyes. At first glance, there didn't seem to be anything wrong. Sam's voice had trailed off and he was looking out the window. Maybe something had caught his attention.

"Sam?" Dean asked, wiping his fingers on a napkin and telling himself to stay calm. There was no reason for him to think anything was wrong, yet a lifetime of being a big brother told him otherwise. "What's up?"

After a few more seconds, Sam turned his attention from whatever he'd seen outside and looked at Dean. He looked like he was trying to stay calm, too. Even though he was sitting still and showing no outward signs of distress, Dean could see the panic in his eyes.

His own heart rate spiked, but Dean kept his voice calm as he asked, "What's going on?"

"Dean-"

"Right here." Dean leaned forward, relieved that Sam was making eye contact. "Talk to me. What-"

"I don't know." Sam's voice was a whisper, his breathing growing increasingly labored. But he was talking and he was still meeting Dean's gaze.

"Ok. That's ok. You're alright. Try to-"

He thought they were going to get past this without actually reaching the panic attack stage. And they _might_ have if the waitress hadn't shown up at that moment to inquire if they wanted more coffee. Dean had been so focused on his brother that her voice made _him_ jump. If he hadn't reacted that way, maybe they still would have been ok. But he jumped and broke the spell and Sam was out of the seat and out the door before Dean could even take a deep breath.

Cursing, Dean pushed himself up and met the startled waitress's eyes. She looked apologetic, but he didn't have time to stand around and explain anything or attempt to make her feel better.

So he said, "I'm not done with that burger. I'll be right back. And yes, more coffee."

Whether she acknowledged him or not, Dean didn't stick around to find out. He didn't care that everyone was staring at him as he rushed across the diner and shoved the door open. Sam was nowhere to be seen and Dean had a couple heart attacks as he stared at the busy road ahead. But he hadn't heard any squealing tires. Which meant Sam had probably gone somewhere else.

Dean glanced at the Pacer, but it was empty. Turning in the opposite direction, Dean took a chance and headed toward the back of the diner. Relief flooded him when he saw his brother at the edge of the parking lot. He jogged across the pavement, slowing down when Sam turned his way. Because it was obvious Sam wasn't yet past whatever had spooked him in the first place. He didn't move, just stood there with one hand pressed against a tree and the other hand pressed to his chest.

"Sam?" Dean held up his hands, not quite able to muster a calming smile. At least his voice was calm. "Hey, you with me?"

It took far longer than Dean was comfortable with, but finally, _finally,_ Sam nodded. Dean sucked in a shaky breath and took another step closer. Sam watched him warily, but didn't back away. Mentally cursing, Dean stood there, wondering what the hell had happened and what he should do about it. He wondered how to prepare himself for this sort of thing in the future.

He was getting close to the point of panicking himself when he remembered what Tommy had told him. He'd warned him that Sam's reactions could be different than they were in the past. That he needed to be the one to stay calm in order to help his brother.

And Sam was looking at him like he had all the answers. Which he didn't. But he was going to act like he did.

"Sam, I need you to tell me what's going on, ok?" Dean cautiously took another step forward, not daring to move too quickly.

"I...I don't know," Sam said, voice shaking as badly as the rest of him. But his breathing was returning to something resembling normal and he looked like he was focusing better now.

Nodding, Dean said, "Ok. You don't know. I don't know, either. It's ok. You know you're safe? Right?"

Sam's breathing faltered, and he started looking around the area like he _didn't_ think he was safe. Dean held his breath and waited. After a few seconds, Sam looked at him again and nodded. The pure relief of seeing Sam coming back around hit him and Dean smiled.

"You wanna sit down?" he asked, walking closer.

"Yeah," Sam whispered, eyes closing slowly.

Dean didn't hesitate. He was at his brother's side in a heartbeat and Sam didn't pull away or freak out when he touched his arm. Instead, Sam reached out for him and then Dean was guiding his brother down to the curb in a controlled descent. He tried to get him to lean back against the tree, but Sam fought him on that and stayed leaning forward, his hands tight around Dean's elbows.

He didn't know what to say or do, so he just crouched there and let Sam hold onto him.

"Dean," Sam whispered after a moment. He shook his head and released his grip, pressing his hands to his face instead. "Dean, how...how'm I supposed to...I don't even know what just happened."

Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes, easing down to sit next to his brother. He regretted not grabbing the pills that Sam had insisted on leaving behind. Thoughts returning to the scene at the library, he knew he couldn't deny it to himself any longer. Things were not as good as he'd been hoping. As he'd been pretending. All he wanted to do right now was pack his brother up in the car, call the Penders and beg for more help.

Instead, he just said, "I know, Sammy. It's ok."

"How is it ok?" Sam finally lowered his hands and looked at him again. He wanted to be angry; Dean could tell he was _trying_ to be angry. But he just sounded and looked utterly defeated. "How is anything ok?"

"It's a bump in the road, ok? I'm not sayin' it's good or that I want this to be happening to you, but it's ok. You're doin' better."

"Am I?"

 _Is he?_ Dean swallowed hard, hoping his own doubt didn't show in his eyes. Ignoring the memory of whatever had happened at the library, Dean nodded. "You're doing better. It's been days since-"

"Since I freaked out about nothing?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Exactly."

It didn't look like Sam felt comforted. He looked like he wanted to cry, if truth be told. Shaking his head, Sam pressed his hands to his eyes again.

Studying him, Dean tried to figure out what he should do or say. Nothing seemed like it would help. Then his thoughts turned, once again, to his conversation with Tommy before they'd left. He wasn't sure if it would help or not, but he was going to give it a shot.

Clearing his throat, Dean shifted until he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with his brother. Sam didn't move, and Dean stared across the parking lot as he said, "Tommy told me he still has nightmares. Flashbacks."

He felt Sam stiffen next to him, but otherwise nothing happened. Dean kept going. "Said he had panic attacks for a long time."

"I'm never going to get over this, am I?" Sam whispered, sounding like he'd already resigned himself to his fate.

"Are you even listening to me? Tommy got through it and so will you." Dean almost added _I did, too,_ but the words froze in his throat.

It would be the supportive thing to say. But bringing up his time below always left him sick to his stomach. As much as he wanted to let his brother know he wasn't alone in this, the words simply wouldn't form. Sam studied him for a long time and Dean hoped he understood. He didn't want to keep talking about it, but he would if Sam needed him to. After a minute, Sam nodded and Dean watched the last bit of tension ease out of his shoulders as conviction filled his eyes.

Feeling as relieved as Sam looked, Dean asked, "You need another minute?"

"No."

Dean watched as Sam pushed himself to his feet. Standing up, Dean said, "Let's go finish lunch."

Sam was walking with him, but shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"Ok." Dean didn't want to let him skip the rest of his meal, but he knew better than to push. "I'll just go sit in the car."

"I won't be long," Dean said, watching his brother slowly walk to the Pacer.

He hesitated for a moment, then sighed and went back into the diner. He could feel the stares of the other customers, but ignored them all. Sliding into the booth, he realized his appetite was basically gone. But he finished the burger anyway and tried to finish the cup of coffee. He glanced at his brother's plate and realized Sam had hardly touched his meal at all.

"Sir?"

Dean looked up and saw the waitress standing beside the table. She wore a sympathetic expression and it was obvious she was nervous. Trying to set her at ease, Dean managed a smile and asked, "Yeah?"

She gave him a tentative, but genuine smile and asked, "Is...he ok?"

"He's fine." Dean kept his voice low and tried not to feel judged.

"My sister," the waitress said softly, "was in the Army. She...came back different. Most of the time now she's better, but sometimes she still has problems."

Dean stared at her, mouth dry. He had no idea what she was trying to say.

"Is he your brother?"

Swallowing against the painful lump in his throat, Dean nodded.

"He's lucky to have you." The waitress smiled. She glanced out the window briefly, then looked back at him. "I just want you to know that I get it. I know how difficult it can be. It's not easy watching someone you love go through stuff like that."

Dean nodded again.

She set an empty styrofoam container on the table in front of him and motioned to Sam's plate. "Maybe he'll want to eat later. And don't worry about the bill, ok? There was a trucker in here. He saw...what happened. He kinda guessed what was going on, too. So he paid for your lunch."

"He-" Dean frowned, looking around the diner.

"He's already gone." The girl gave him another smile and said, "I hope things get better for both of you."

"Thanks. For...understanding." Dean tried to smile and hoped he pulled it off.

She smiled a bit wider and moved away.

Dean looked at the food in front of him, staggered that a stranger would have paid for their lunch. Shaking his head, he looked out at the Pacer. It made him feel better to see Sam sitting there in the passenger seat. He packed up Sam's lunch, then headed for the door.

Wondering how things were going to play out when he got back into the car, Dean hoped for the best. He pulled the door open and was relieved when Sam didn't act startled. Dean set the container of leftovers on the seat between them, pulled his door closed and started the engine.

For a moment, they sat there silently.

Then Sam reached for the box of food and pulled out his chicken veggie wrap - or whatever the heck it was - and started eating. Dean smiled to himself, but didn't comment. He put the car in drive and got them back on the road.

* * *

"I'm going to take a walk; stretch my legs."

Dean paused halfway out of the car. It had been over two hours since either of them had spoken. Typically they would be discussing the next case. Or arguing about music and food and anything else they could come up with just to make the time go faster on the endless road ahead of them. But long, often uncomfortable, silences were apparently the new norm. There were times they could get a conversation going like they used to, but more often than not, the drives were silent. Dean tried, but there was only so much he could do when his brother wouldn't put in any effort to help with the conversation.

 _And of course, the first thing Sam says in hours is that he's taking a walk_ , Dean thought. He wanted to sigh but didn't. Looking back at his brother, he just nodded. "Don't get lost."

Sam seemed mildly amused by that as he motioned around them. "This town doesn't even have a stoplight."

"Doesn't have a stop sign either," Dean commented with a grin. They got out of the car and Dean headed for the gas pumps. "You got any cash?"

"No." Sam slammed his door, glancing up the road where a small - very small - Farmer's market was situated.

Dean began pumping the gas and asked, "What happened to the cash I gave you the other day?"

Resting his arms on top of the car, Sam smiled. "Who paid for the room last night? And the last fill-up. And your extra burger for lunch today?"

Dean scowled. "That burger was so tiny a kid would've starved."

Sam rolled his eyes and started to walk away. Dean dug out his wallet and said, "Here. Knock yourself out."

Pausing for a moment, Sam accepted the twenty with a smile. "Thanks."

Patting Sam on the shoulder, Dean leaned back against the car and advised, "Don't waste it all on fruits and vegetables. It's not healthy."

* * *

Sam shot his brother a disbelieving stare, then walked away. There was no point in bothering to discuss it further with his brother. The only vegetable Dean liked was a potato. Deep fried, salted, and dipped in ketchup. And the only fruit he was interested in was the kind that he could find between the crusts of a pie.

Grinning as he walked, Sam knew his brother would be stocking up on chips and candy while he went in search of a decent apple. While there had been many wonderful things about staying with the Penders, Sam had to admit the fact she kept a bowl on the kitchen counter filled with fresh fruit had been one of the best. Whether because of his lack of appetite or the chaos of the past months, he hadn't been eating anywhere near as healthy as he preferred.

Finding a Farmer's market in a tiny town where they'd pulled off for gas was a pleasant surprise. Sam intended to make the most of it while he had the chance. Knowing Dean would be ready to get back on the road as soon as the gas was pumped, Sam picked up the pace so he could get to the market and have time to look. At least the market was tiny. Just like the town.

Still, it was refreshing to be out of the car on a warm day and enjoying something ordinary. In the back of his mind, as always, he wondered if something would go wrong. It was impossible to predict and, as much as he wanted fair warning, he knew it wasn't going to happen. So he pushed the worry to the dark corner of his mind where he was putting everything else and focused on the smell of fresh fruit and flowers.

The people at each stand were friendly, open and pleasant, but he tried to engage as little as possible. It was stupid, but he still wasn't quite comfortable being around so many people. Even thinking that threatened to unravel his control. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw his brother lying back on the hood of the car, sunglasses on and arms crossed.

Either he was taking a nap, or more likely, Dean was _pretending_ to take a nap and instead was keeping a close eye on him. It made Sam feel better and he was able to make some purchases along the way. The last stand wasn't for food. It was a bit of everything and Sam only spared a cursory glance at first.

Just as he was about to head back to the gas station, something caught his eye and he returned his attention to the display. Sam pulled out the last of the cash Dean had given him and made his purchase. Bags in hand, he returned to the car.

Dean sat up before he was close so Sam knew his brother _had_ been watching him. He was incredibly grateful for the silent support and wanted to verbalize his appreciation for everything Dean had been doing for him. But that would probably just embarrass them both. He hoped his last purchase would be understood as the thank-you he could never say.

"What'd you get me?"

Sam paused, wondering if his brother had seen what he'd picked up or if he was just being his annoying self. The smirk on his face and the excited way he was rubbing his hands told Sam that Dean was just being his annoying self. So he dug into the bag and threw an apple at his brother. Dean caught it as he headed for the drivers side door.

Grinning at the disgusted expression on Dean's face, Sam joined him in the car.

Dean held the apple up and asked, "What is this?"

"An apple."

"Yeah. I know that, dumbass. Why did you give it to me?"

"You asked what I got you." Sam shrugged, grinning as he settled comfortably in his seat. He took a bite of his own apple.

The car wasn't running and Dean was still glaring. "What do you expect me to do with this?"

He wanted to laugh, but Sam maintained a perfectly serious expression as he said, "Bake a pie."

Dean's eyebrows shot up and he stared at the apple. He shook his head. "Yeah. Pie in a motel microwave. I don't exactly have a pie pan. Or a kitchen."

Sam felt bad for teasing about a pie when he saw the sadness in his brother's eyes. Dean was probably thinking about Arla's cooking and her kitchen. Sam knew the likelihood of them ever having their own kitchen was very slim. He decided to try to make up for the disappointment as best as he could.

"Hey man, when we get a kitchen, I'll buy you the best pie pan on the market, ok?"

Dean turned to him and Sam could tell his brother recognized his sincerity. Dean nodded and started the car. He took an enormous bite of his apple, then, mouth full, said, "Best pie pan in the entire world."

"Deal."

Nodding again, Dean asked, "What else did you get?"

"More apples." Sam peered into the bags. He was _very_ glad he'd picked up so many apples because they tasted wonderful. "Uh, some peaches. A few tomatoes."

Dean made a face, but he was still eating his apple.

"Oh, and this." Sam grinned and held up the Led Zeppelin mix tape that had caught his eye.

Surprise lit Dean's face and then he just looked positively thrilled. He popped the tape they'd been listening to out of the player and happily accepted the new tape. Putting it in and pushing play, Dean sat there, a blissful expression on his face as he listened to the first notes of _Ramble On._ It wasn't as if they didn't have their own copy, but it was fun to listen to a different mix of the music for a change.

Dean took another bite of his apple and eased the car onto the road. He'd been driving for a few minutes before he said, "This is awesome. Thanks."

"No problem."

They were silent for several miles, then Sam asked softly, "Uh...if it's on the tape, could you skip-"

" _Stairway to Heaven?"_ Dean cut him off before Sam even said the name. "Yeah. I was already planning to, Sammy."

The relief was almost overpowering. Even before he'd spoken up, his brother had already known exactly what he needed. Sam settled back in his seat and enjoyed the rest of the apple, feeling relaxed and at ease.

He didn't figure it would last long, but he was going to enjoy every moment of peace for as long as he could.

* * *

 _The next morning_

Sam stared at himself in the mirror and cringed when he heard something hit the wall in the other room. He lowered his head and clutched the edge of the counter. Things had been getting better. At least that's what he'd been telling himself. He'd had a rough patch a couple days ago, but they'd picked up the pieces after his freak out at the diner and he hadn't had any issues since. But this morning it felt as if they'd lost their grip. Lost their ability to hold onto the tenuous normalcy they'd worked so hard to achieve.

Something else hit the wall. Sam took a slow breath and tried not to let his brother's anger shake him. He straightened and looked at the mirror again. One of these days he hoped he would look in the mirror and recognize the face that looked back at him.

There were moments when he didn't think he'd ever feel like himself again. But there were also moments when he knew he was getting better. He was. There were still plenty of bad moments along the way, though. Which is what had led to the current situation.

Sam couldn't even remember what had started it, what Dean had said. His brother hadn't meant to start an argument, that much he knew, but his words had triggered something in Sam. Much like that day at the diner, his reaction to it all had come out of the blue. Much like this current situation, Sam didn't know what had happened at the diner, either. It could've been a sound; a flash of light off a passing car. Could've been absolutely nothing. It terrified him. Because if he couldn't identify what caused the panic attacks he couldn't prevent them.

If he were being honest with himself, though, Sam knew he wasn't even trying to figure it out. He was too afraid to try. The fear of what he might remember if he did gave him chest pains.

And today it had cost him a fight with his brother. Sam had been the first one to yell. Dean hadn't risen to the bait, hadn't been anything but patient, and that had just made Sam push harder. Because he didn't want patient. He wanted normal.

Dean had been trying, but sometimes Sam thought they were both trying too hard.

He stood there a moment longer knowing he was being a complete coward. Maybe if he hadn't ducked into the bathroom and slammed the door things wouldn't be so bad. He'd overreacted and he knew it. But it was as if nothing Dean had said had been the right thing, and Sam didn't even know why. And if he felt that way, how must his brother feel?

This was not the way he'd wanted the day to start.

He rubbed his eyes and hated that his head was already pounding.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and hoped he wasn't going to get hit in the face by anything. Apparently Dean had run out of energy, though. Or at least out of projectiles. He was leaning against the open front door, staring out at the rain.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean turned and Sam could see how difficult this was for his brother.

"I...I'm ready to go, ok?"

Dean nodded and walked out the door.

Glancing around the room, Sam realized that while he'd been hiding in the bathroom, Dean had finished packing everything up and hauling it to the car. Sam sighed and pulled the door closed behind him. Dean started the car and Sam sat down in the cramped seat.

Dean didn't put the car into drive.

Sam stared out the windshield at the falling rain. After a few minutes passed silently, he glanced over at his brother. Dean didn't look tense like Sam had been expecting. He looked calm and like maybe throwing things against the wall had helped.

 _Maybe I should give it a try._

"You alright?" Dean asked without looking at him. He was probably afraid of getting his head bit off for asking.

"Yeah. You?"

"Gettin' there."

"Me too."

Dean snorted.

Sam smiled briefly and said, "I'm sorry."

"It's ok." Dean waved a hand.

"I overreacted."

"So did I."

They both sighed and Sam wondered what they were supposed to do next. Dean was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, but making no move to begin driving. Sam was trying to figure out something reasonable to say when Dean spoke up.

"You know you're getting better, right?"

Sam's heart pounded and his palms suddenly were sweaty. He rubbed them on his jeans. They weren't supposed to talk about it. They were supposed to talk around it. They were supposed to be ignoring it, but Sam knew it was difficult for either of them to do that when he was still freaking out in public places. They might have hoped to have left everything behind them, but they hadn't left anything behind.

Swallowing hard, Sam ignored Dean's comment. Logically, he realized he was better - better than he had been anyway. But when he kept overreacting to the slightest things, it didn't feel like very much progress. When he _still_ lay awake almost all night every night. Dean wasn't commenting on the fact he was frequently sleeping while they drove, but Sam had to assume Dean knew he wasn't sleeping much at night. Every night he'd been sleeping less and less.

Dean finally put the car in drive.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Dean was going to drop the matter. He rubbed his throbbing head and, yet again, found himself regretting leaving the pills behind at the lake house. The headaches were still a daily struggle although most days they were less intense than they had been.

But he needed to sleep. If he'd brought the painkillers maybe he could've knocked himself out for a decent nights sleep now and then.

And it wasn't just the painkillers he found himself wishing he'd brought with him.

The fact that he knew he needed the _other_ pills terrified him.

The anxiety was still there. A painful reality he couldn't quite get past. It was getting easier to control. _To hide._ But it was always there and he'd never felt anything like it before. It ate away at him even when everything was going fine. It was always there.

In all honesty, he probably _did_ need to talk about things. Dean could shove all the darkness down and use it to fuel his anger toward the evil out there they fought against. Sam knew his brother was just as damaged deep down by everything _he'd_ gone through as he was himself. But Dean was a lot stronger. Always had been. And he'd never wanted to talk about it, either.

Sam didn't know how to talk about any of it and he didn't want to, but sometimes he wondered if it wouldn't be better just to say it all out loud. Put all the ugliness and horror out there in the daylight and analyze it then file it away. But he didn't dare.

Because if he ever said it all aloud, Dean would overreact and then _he'd_ overreact and then they'd only have a repeat of this morning and he didn't want that.

Dean might be right. Maybe he _was_ getting better. But _better_ was relative.

Laying awake at night, sometimes his chest hurt so badly he couldn't breathe and he'd almost call out for his brother. But Dean was getting better, too, and Sam didn't want to jeopardize the small victories they were each winning. So instead, he would roll over and silently allow the tears to soak into the pillow.

The pain, the fear, the emptiness was always there. Always pressing in on him no matter how good things were going. He felt so alone even when his brother was within arms reach. He felt ashamed and afraid and so, _so_ tired.

He was tired enough that he wished he could close his eyes and never wake up. The only reason he kept going was because he needed - _wanted -_ to be here for his brother. They were a team and that meant sticking together no matter what. It did help being back on the road, returning to familiar habits.

Deep down, though, Sam knew the truth that he would never, ever say aloud. He knew if it wasn't for his brother, he wouldn't even be trying anymore. Dean was his reason for getting up in the morning. His reason for continuing to fight when he just wanted to quit. Sam glanced at his brother and hoped that when they went, they went together. If anything happened to Dean, it would be over for him.

As hard as he was trying, Sam knew he needed more help. What he didn't know was how to get it.

* * *

Dean knew Sam needed more help. What he didn't know was how to give it to him.

He fought back the urge to sigh as he accelerated down the road.

After the incident at the diner, things had returned to status quo. They'd gone back to joking and bickering about what to eat and where to go. It all felt so normal that when moments like this happened, it made the truth all the more startling. The truth of how much they were still hiding. The truth of how good they were both getting at faking it.

He strongly considered the fact that, by allowing his brother to deny how bad things still were, Dean might be doing a whole lot more harm than good. Everything had seemed to be going fairly well until the day at the diner. Sam said he didn't know what had happened and Dean hated himself for his suspicion that Sam was lying.

He glanced over at his brother. Sam didn't look good today. Dean wasn't an idiot and he knew his brother was back to barely sleeping. He wasn't the only one. It took Dean a few sips of something strong before _he_ could get to sleep. Sam seemed to be avoiding alcohol for the most part and Dean hoped it was a good thing.

But sometimes he wished Sam would just get drunk and pass out.

Dean had never felt so helpless. It didn't take much to show exactly how bad things were just under the surface. All he could hope was that once they got back on a case, back to work, maybe it would all sort itself out. The first hunt had gone well and things had been better for awhile.

There wasn't much for Sam to focus on right now, although Dean was trying to keep him busy. Maybe if he was back to working a case, he would finally be able to move on. Researching and working the case a few days ago had been when things had felt the most normal. They needed another case.

Soon.

"Breakfast?" he asked, before they went too far.

"I don't care."

Dean couldn't stop the sigh this time.

Sam didn't sleep. Sam barely ate. Sam didn't care. About much of anything. Looking over at him again, Dean found him with both hands pressed against his eyes.

Making a spur of the moment decision, he turned the car around in the next driveway he came to. Sam didn't look up. Dean picked up coffee and some breakfast at the first place he came to. Sam didn't pay any attention and didn't lower his hands.

Dean drove back to the motel. Left his brother in the car. Paid for a room for another day. Went back to the car and found Sam hadn't moved an inch.

After parking in front of the room, Dean got out and unlocked the door without bothering to turn any lights on, then headed back out into the rain. Pulling the passenger side door open, Dean smiled at the utter confusion on Sam's face.

He asked, "Did we forget something?"

"Yeah." Dean grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the car. "You forgot to sleep last night."

"Dean." Sam immediately stopped moving.

"No. Do not do this."

Dean faced off with his brother and knew this could quickly become the battle neither of them wanted to fight. But fight it they were going to. Because Sam wasn't sleeping well -or for more than a few hours at a time if he was lucky- and it needed to stop.

Shaking his head, Dean wished they'd at least gotten _under_ the awning before Sam decided to show his belligerent side. Instead, they stood in the parking lot, getting wet. Sam took a deep breath and Dean knew he was preparing to argue. So he cut him off before he could start.

"We have nowhere to be. You're running yourself into the ground. Again." Dean watched the defense measures go up in his brother's eyes and softened his tone. "Please, Sammy. You've got to sleep."

The fight went out of him. Sam's shoulders slumped and he walked into the room without a word. Dean wanted to congratulate himself on his victory, but somehow it didn't feel like there was much to celebrate. He grabbed some of the gear from the car and headed inside. Sam was sitting on one of the beds, staring at the carpet. Dean wanted to tell him to lay down, but kept his mouth shut.

Dumping everything on the other bed, Dean went back to the car for breakfast. He'd picked up stuff that could easily be rewarmed because he doubted Sam was going to be interested in eating right now. Stepping back inside, he locked the door behind him and glanced at the bed.

Sam was lying down under the covers, but he had the tv on and Dean was never sure these days if he had it on merely to irritate him or if he had it on because he _needed_ it on. Dean never asked and Sam never said. As was the case with most things these days. Taking his jacket off, Dean wished he could give his brother something stronger for the headache, but he knew Sam had already taken some Tylenol earlier before everything had spun out of control.

All he could hope was that getting some more rest would help.

Dean took his breakfast and coffee around to the other side of the bed. Sam watched him, but didn't say anything. He already looked more asleep than awake. Once Dean was settled on the other side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard, Sam sighed and held up the remote. Taking it with a smile, Dean flipped through the channels.

By the time he found something worth watching, Sam was sound asleep.

Taking a sip of coffee, Dean turned the volume down a pinch, but left it up enough that he could hear the dialogue. He adjusted the pillows behind his back and unwrapped his breakfast sandwich.

He ate breakfast. Watched two movies. Played a few games of online poker. Researched Richard Roman Enterprises. Ordered lunch. Ate lunch. Took a nap. Considered calling Arla or Tommy. Reconsidered.

And then he did something he'd been too afraid to do before.

He started researching PTSD, depression, anxiety and some other topics that turned his stomach. Much as he wanted to pretend nothing had happened, it had, and he couldn't keep burying his head in the sand. If he couldn't get Sam to a therapist, then he was going to have to figure out how to _be_ the therapist.

Everything he found made him worry even more.

Dean did a little research on his own issue, too, and it bothered him that he could easily seek help. Because alcoholism was something "normal". It wasn't being possessed or held prisoner and tortured for a century by the devil himself.

For eight hours, he occupied himself, the rain fell, and Sam slept.

As far as Dean knew, it was the longest solid, uninterrupted block of sleep he'd had since the first night they'd been back on the road.

When he finally did wake up just after six, Dean hadn't solved their issues or figured out what he needed to do to help his brother. But he had a sandwich and more Tylenol waiting for him. Sam ate the sandwich, took the pills, made a pit stop in the bathroom, and brushed his teeth before collapsing back into bed. Dean had a feeling his brother had done all of it while half asleep.

He was about to push himself up and stop hogging one side of his brother's bed when he heard Sam's voice.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He looked down at him.

Sam was fighting to keep his eyes open as he stared up at the ceiling. He cleared his throat and said, "I couldn't...do this without you."

"Well, good thing you don't have to." Dean grinned, catching Sam's eye briefly.

He knew Sam meant so much more than the hunting. He knew Sam meant _this._ This awful nightmare they'd gone through - _were_ going through - together.

"Good thing," Sam whispered, with a brief smile.

Dean watched him roll over onto his side until he was just a pinch closer. It didn't take long for him to fall asleep again. Smiling, Dean settled himself more comfortably. He told himself he was staying where he was because he was watching a movie, but he never even looked back at the tv.

He just did what he'd done his entire life.

Watched out for his little brother.

* * *

 **Hope you liked the chapter! Just as a warning...there are more ups and downs ahead. ;) It ain't over yet.**

 **Also...this story will not be over at ch 45. :) right now it's shaping up to be 49 chapters with ch 50 being an epilogue. Hope you don't mind. :) From what I've been getting from your reviews, it doesn't seem like having a few more chapters will bother anyone!**

 **Hope you have a wonderful weekend!**


	45. Chapter 45

**Hi! Hope no one minds if this posts a day early. :) Thank you all for your reviews and continued support. I know this has turned in to a HUGE saga and it's not always easy to keep up with long stories like this, but I'm glad everyone seems to be enjoying it still! ;) Thank you to my guest reviewers who have been so kind in leaving notes! And thank you to everyone who is following and who has favorited, your support is wonderful!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 ** _Chapter 45_**

The familiar sound of the Impala brought Sam out of a deep sleep.

Head pounding, Sam dragged a hand out from under the pillow and scrubbed at his eyes. Blinking against the early morning light filtering in through the thin motel curtains, he debated the merits of pulling the covers over his head and pretending he'd never awakened. Sam heard the key in the door and shifted, pressing his face into the pillow.

"Morning, sunshine."

 _Of course._ The first morning Sam slept late _would_ be the first morning Dean woke up early.

Sam didn't move in case his brother would take a hint and leave him alone.

Something nudged his shoulder. So Dean _wasn't_ leaving him alone. A hand mussed the back of his head and Sam wanted to slap him, but it didn't seem worth the effort. The hand moved away after a second and Sam heard the squeak of the mattress springs on the other bed.

"Coffee?" Dean was keeping his voice thoughtfully low.

Coffee sounded wonderful, but, like everything else, also didn't seem worth the effort. Tilting his head a pinch, Sam asked, "Time's it?"

"Seven-thirty."

Sam forced his eyes open and looked over at his brother in surprise. It was the first morning he'd slept past four. After sleeping all day, he'd been in and out most of the night, but fallen into a restless sleep just after three. Usually he was wide awake by three, if he slept at all, and fighting to stay in bed until at least five to keep his far too nosy brother from realizing how little he was sleeping.

"Found us a case."

Doubt hit him at his brother's words. "Dean-"

"So you gotta get outta bed because we got things to do," Dean cut him off before he could finish.

"I don't-"

"Yeah, well you don't have to. You overthink everything so just don't. Just don't, Sam."

There was a hint of teasing in Dean's tone, but Sam could hear the strain, too. Knowing they'd stayed an extra day because he'd needed the sleep only added a layer of guilt to the growing worry he felt about his abilities to go out on another hunt. The first one had gone fine, but maybe it had been a fluke.

"Coffee. Shower. Or vice versa. Your choice."

"Generous."

"Hey, man, I had to do the coffee run this morning so that's as generous as it gets." Dean leaned forward and set the coffee on the nightstand. "Headache?"

There was no point in denying it so Sam shrugged, then pressed his face back into the pillow. He listened as Dean got up and tapped out a couple pills onto the nightstand.

Dean asked, "You need a little more time?"

There would never be enough time.

"Sam." A long pause followed by a heavy sigh. "If you don't want to work a new case, we can wait. I just thought-"

"No." Sam shifted his face from the pillow and stared at his brother's knees. They were supposed to be getting back to normal. "It's fine."

The bed springs creaked again as Dean sat back down.

Sam rolled over onto his back and pressed his hand to his eyes to avoid looking at his brother.

"Thought it was a leviathan thing at first," Dean said, his voice still soft, "but a bunch of hikers with their hearts missing doesn't sound like a leviathan kill."

"Werewolf."

"Probably. Right time of the month. State park hundred miles east. Made local papers because a hometown guy got killed."

Sam lowered his hand and stared at the ceiling. "Sounds like our kind of thing."

"That's what I thought." The mattress springs groaned as Dean rose. "Breakfast's on the table."

Pushing himself upright, Sam grabbed the tablets and dry swallowed them before taking a sip of the coffee. He heard Dean pull back a chair and thump down in it, unwrapping a breakfast sandwich. The thought of another fast food sandwich turned Sam's stomach. Not for the first time, he found himself missing Arla's cooking.

Yesterday, they'd finished off the last of the provisions she'd sent with them and Dean had looked so sad when he'd discovered they were down to the last cookie, Sam hadn't had the heart to tease him. Or to eat the cookie.

Still avoiding his brother's gaze, he took the coffee with him and headed for the bathroom to take a shower.

* * *

Sam had been moody and withdrawn ever since he'd awakened. Dean knew a lot of it had to do with the fact that he'd grounded them for an extra day and Sam was beating himself up about it along with everything else.

Dean couldn't have cared less. They weren't on the clock and if a mandatory nap was what it took to get Sam the sleep he needed, then so be it. The extra rest had done them both good, Dean had to admit. He felt good. Not great, but he was over the cold and even his stomach seemed to be more settled today. He was tolerating the coffee this morning which was an improvement, too. Sam was still fighting to kick the cold, and the shadows under his eyes were still there, but he'd slept.

He'd seemed hungover from the sleep, though, so Dean had given him his space, his coffee and left him alone. By the time they'd packed the gear and hit the road, Sam had regained what passed for his sparkling personality these days. He'd been disinterested in the breakfast sandwich, but had taken the newspaper article on the killings at the state park. Wishing he still had some of Arla's baked treats to offer his brother, Dean allowed the discarded sandwich to get left behind and figured maybe Sam would be more interested in lunch in a few hours.

Of course, as it turned out, he was the only one interested in lunch. But Sam did eat while he dug into the local police reports so at least Dean didn't need to argue with him about it. There seemed to be a noticeable lack of enthusiasm on his brother's part and Dean had to wonder if pushing so soon for another hunt had been a bad idea. Or maybe Sam was just too tired to be enthusiastic about anything.

Dean didn't really know one way or another because, as usual, Sam wasn't talking to him.

Watching his brother studying the computer, Dean found himself thinking back over a lifetime of watching his nerdy little brother studying...something. Always something. First it was Dean's own comic books that Sam studied before he could even read. He would pour over the pictures and tell Dean the stories he saw from the pictures; not necessarily the stories the books really told.

He'd initially balked at learning to read and it had been a source of many tantrums. Dad always had a headache and Sam was always in tears by the time they were finished with whatever reading homework his teacher had sent home with him that day. Dean had been in charge of a lot of things, but reading homework was one task he'd been excused from. Mostly because Dad knew he never pushed his brother to read like he should have done. Dean loved to read and sitting there with his little brother whining at him and taking twenty times as long as he needed in order to sound out one word had been torture.

Dean usually threw in the towel after two pages and read the book to his brother figuring he'd eventually get the hang of it.

Dad hadn't approved that method and took over the reading homework duties while Dean hid as far away as possible from the tears and frustration. After a painful year and a half, a lightbulb seemed to turn on in Sam's head and from that day forward he became an avid reader which would come in handy as he got older and was able to help with researching for hunts.

Once he'd begun to read he was _always_ reading. And always studying. Homework or how to kill whatever monster Dad was hunting at the time. He might harass him about being such a nerd, but Dean knew exactly how lucky they were that Sam was so damn smart.

And he knew exactly how lucky they were that Sam was sitting there _being_ so damn smart after everything. Dean's thoughts turned back to the day at Bobby's when Sam had finally stopped trying to deal with it on his own and admitted how bad things really were. He would never forget that moment. Would never forget their conversation.

 _You know that he's not real. Right?_

 _He says the same thing about you._

Dean had thought he'd been scared before, but hearing those words, he'd known more fear than he had...maybe ever.

He'd felt plenty of fear over the course of his life. Fear when his dad had been gone and he'd been left to guard a motel room door with a rifle that was too big for him to hold. Fear when they were all out on a hunt together and the danger got too close to one of them. Fear when Sam left for Stanford. Fear when their dad was missing. Fear when his deal loomed ever nearer on the horizon and nothing could stop it. Fear when everything had gone wrong between them and angels and demons had done everything in their power to destroy their bond.

Yeah, he'd been scared before, but, there in Bobby's study, Dean had been beyond terrified. Because he'd realized right then it was _his_ fault. He'd been the one who bargained with Death to get Sam's soul back. Yeah, there hadn't been much of a choice. Not really. Which was why he'd done it. He'd consoled himself that at least Sam was alive, had a soul, and was sitting there in front of him talking.

And hallucinating the devil.

After a lifetime of protecting him, _he'd_ been the one to hurt his brother.

It had been a Pyrrhic victory and they were still paying the price. Maybe they always would.

Dean tried to push it aside and focus on the fact that Sam was getting better and sitting there doing the research on a fresh case.

"Dude."

Something bounced off his forehead and Dean shook himself out of his reverie.

"Hey," Sam said, frowning. "What's goin' on with you?"

"What?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You spaced out. Like completely. You have a stroke or somethin'?"

Dean glared at him. "I'm fine. Just thinking about the case."

"Yeah, whatever."

Sam returned his attention to the laptop and Dean sort of regretted lying and shutting his brother out. Dean still wasn't convinced he wasn't making a serious mistake in allowing Sam to remain silent about what he'd gone through. But there was no way he wanted to get into an in-depth discussion about what he'd been thinking. So he returned his attention to the present and tried to regain his appetite.

Staring at his plate for a minute, Dean shook his head and looked at his brother. "Did you eat my fries?"

Sam shrugged, eyes focused on the laptop screen. "They were getting cold."

"So you ate my fries?"

"You want me to buy you some more?" Sam peered at him over the top of the computer and Dean could see the smile.

"Nah." Dean waved a hand.

He didn't think he could choke anything else down anyway. The BLT had tasted good initially, but now it was soggy and cold. He wasn't even interested in pulling the remaining bacon out. There was only one thing he was interested in at the moment.

Sliding out of the booth, Dean said, "Gonna hit the head. Be done with the research by the time I get back."

He walked away, trying to be amused with the annoyed protests he could hear behind him. But he was too keyed up to be amused. By the time he reached the bathroom, his hands were shaking and his nerves were shot.

Leaning against the wall, he fumbled for Bobby's flask and took a generous swallow. He was drinking more than he should, but less than he had been so Dean figured it was a decent compromise. It didn't hurt as much so that had to be a good sign, right?

Keeping an eye on the time, Dean put a self-imposed limit on himself. He had five minutes and he was only going to drink enough to steady his nerves. Not a drop more. They had work to do and he was still the designated driver.

Five minutes later, he walked out of the bathroom.

Nerves steady.

Flask empty.

* * *

"This is why I don't go camping," Arla said, comfortably settled on the couch.

Tommy frowned and waved his hand around. "You don't go camping because you like our house?"

"No, dear. I don't go camping because I can't easily do laundry when I'm camping. I hate the mess after camping. Look at how easy it was? I could do laundry at the vacation house, pack the clothes and when we get home, I put clean clothes away and we're sitting on the couch relaxing."

"You may be relaxed. I'm sick."

Arla laughed, patting his shoulder. "I think you'll survive. The rest of us did."

"Ugh." Tommy rolled onto his back, head on a pillow in her lap, and looked up at her. "I'm just glad you're a doctor. This could turn serious."

"I somehow doubt it." Arla smiled down at him, brushing her hand over his head and, not for the first time, missing his fluffy white hair. Giving him a quick kiss, she settled back against the couch and sighed. "I am very glad to be home."

"Me too."

"Could use another week to recover, though."

Tommy nodded. "Definitely. This had to be the most _non-_ relaxing vacation we've ever taken."

"That ill-advised trip to Disney when the girls were six comes pretty close."

"Is that the time we lost Sara?"

"No. We lost her when we were-" Arla frowned, tilting her head and staring at the tv even though neither of them were paying any attention to the movie. "Where were we?"

Tommy shrugged, shifting until he was more comfortable. "No clue. Grand Canyon?"

"No. That was the time we lost Amy."

"Wow. We were terrible parents." Tommy grinned.

"It's a miracle either of them survived." Arla laughed, then sobered. "Sometimes I still wish-"

"Arla?"

She smiled a little and said, "Sometimes I still wish I could have had more children."

"Honey, with our record, if we'd had any more children, we'd have lost them somewhere along the way. Keeping track of two of them was clearly beyond us. And they're a matching set. It shouldn't have been so easy to misplace one."

Arla had to laugh. "You might be right."

Tommy squeezed her hand and said, "I think we made a really good family."

"Me too."

For a moment, they fell silent, then Tommy asked, "You haven't heard-"

"If they'd texted me, don't you think I'd have said something?"

"Yeah." He sighed. "So the last text was-"

"The same one you got." Arla looked out the window, feeling familiar worry bubbling up.

The last time they'd heard anything had been a few days ago when they'd both received a simple text from Sam. All it had said was _Thank you,_ but it had made her cry and Tommy had teased her for being emotional. He'd looked pretty emotional, too, but she hadn't commented.

"Not gonna lie," Tommy said, softly, "those boys are in for a rough road. I wish we _had_ kidnapped them."

Arla smiled, sensing in his tone the same longing and worry that she herself felt. Sighing, she brushed her hand over his head again and said, "I do, too. I wish we'd never let them go that Christmas."

Tommy rubbed his thumb against her wrist. After a minute, he said, "I'm really worried. I don't want to make it worse, because I know you're just as worried, but I am."

Her eyes watered, hearing him admit how concerned he truly was.

"They need more help," he added, unnecessarily.

"I know. We did everything we could."

"Did we?" Tommy frowned, looking up at her. "I'm not sure. I feel like I should have spent more time with Sam. He...he's right there on the edge."

Arla sighed, nodding. "They both are. You know Dean was drinking again?"

Tommy smiled ruefully. "I didn't want to tell you."

"You didn't need to. I suspected as much." Arla's stomach turned at the thought.

"He's still angry," Tommy said, shaking his head. "Burying all of that unresolved grief he's carrying around rather than dealing with it. He's nothing but a bunch of broken pieces. I don't know how he's holding it together as well as he is, but I don't think it's going to take much for him to fall apart. I shouldn't have let them go."

Arla could tell how guilty he felt about it. "Honey, they needed to go almost as much as they need more help. I don't think we could have convinced them to stay much longer if we'd tried. If Sam hadn't wanted to go, maybe Dean would have stayed a few more days. Honestly, I think he would have."

"He didn't seem to be in a hurry."

"No, he didn't."

"If they'd stayed, he might have been willing to get a little help."

"Maybe. At least he could have gotten help." Arla sighed. "I feel sick knowing there isn't really any help out there for Sam. He left those pills behind and I know he never wanted to touch them in the first place, but he probably needs them. He also needs counselling. But-"

"But he can't talk to anyone the way he needs to."

"Exactly. How could he? All that crazy stuff they were telling us about? The devil? The results of what he went through may be similar to the issues others suffer from after such severe trauma and abuse," Arla said, shaking her head, "but he could never tell the _real_ reasons for what happened to him."

"He's got it under control right now. Barely." Tommy closed his eyes. "I should have talked to him more. Tried to prepare him. You know how...how difficult it was. And I didn't go through anything near as bad as what he went through. But you know how long it took me."

Arla did know. She knew exactly how bad it had been. Exactly how long it had taken him. And she knew how difficult it was for him to talk about it, even now. The fact he'd opened up to Sam at all surprised her. She didn't know what exactly he'd said, but he'd told him something.

Leaning down for another quick kiss, she smiled. "We did our best. _You_ did your best. I'm so proud of you for going out there those first two nights. For being there for him that way."

Tommy pressed a hand to his eyes for a second, then said, "You were there for me the same way."

"And I always will be, sweetheart."

The aftermath of the shooting had been the most difficult, most terrifying experience of her entire life. There were times she'd felt like they were _both_ going to drown under it all. Times when she'd felt like she'd never find Tommy again.

"You saved me," Tommy whispered, squeezing her hand. "Just like the night we met. You saved me."

Arla brushed a tear from his cheek and said, "And I'd do it again. Everything. All of it. I'd do it again."

He nodded and it wasn't just because of the lingering cold that left him sniffing. Arla knew how hard he could be on himself and knew she needed to save him from this, too. As much as she wanted to cry over the boys, as much as she was going to worry about them every single day going forward, she knew she needed to help her husband get past it.

"Tommy, we did everything we could," she said softly, meeting his gaze. "All we can do now is pray."

He nodded and visibly pulled himself together. Pressing a kiss to her fingertips, he smiled and said, "Let's stay home tonight. Ok?"

"Ok."

Arla had already decided to cancel their dinner plans with friends. They could do that another time. She smiled as he closed his eyes, hand still in hers. Smoothing the worry lines away from his forehead, Arla held him as he fell asleep.

Sometimes there was nothing more important, no healing more miraculous than simply being present and loving someone unconditionally.

* * *

As he pulled the car into the parking lot of the hospital, Dean could feel two things: the burn of the slice in his left side and the anxiety radiating off Sam. The injury wasn't serious. Wouldn't even need stitches. But, while they could easily take care of the cut itself, they didn't carry tetanus shots with them. It had been a rusty, ragged edge of metal the werewolf had swung at him. Which was the only reason they were heading to a hospital. They didn't mess with stuff like tetanus.

Even though it wasn't serious, Dean knew the wound was worrying his brother. He hadn't said anything, but Dean could see the fear. He read it in the way Sam was sitting next to him; stiff as a board, but almost vibrating with tension. Dean could also tell by the fact that Sam had never once offered to drive.

Other than the slice on his side, the hunt had gone well. Two in a row. Dean's confidence in their abilities was returning. But he could tell Sam wasn't feeling quite as good about it as he was. Taking another peek at his brother, Dean almost told him to stay in the car. He didn't, though, because...well, he just didn't know what Sam was thinking or what he would prefer to do.

Dean opened his door and, hand pressed to his side, straightened. A minute passed as he stared up at the sign above the ER. There was no movement from the other side of the car which Dean supposed was his answer. Leaning down, he peeked in anyway.

"It won't take long," Dean said, when it became obvious Sam wasn't planning to move.

Sam didn't look at him, but nodded.

Closing the door, Dean turned and headed into the ER. And then he sat there for thirty minutes because, of course, everyone and their fourth cousin ten times removed needed to be seen this evening. He tapped his fingers on his knee rather than touching the arm of the chair. He'd come in to get a tetanus shot; he didn't need to leave with the flu or the plague or whatever else was crawling on the furniture. It made him want to squirm already just sitting in the chair.

He hated hospitals.

Finally, _finally,_ he was called back and he sent a quick text to his brother letting him know why it was taking so long. He didn't get a reply and tried not to worry about it while the nurse took his blood pressure and asked what had brought him into the ER.

Thankfully, it wasn't difficult to create a plausible reason for his injury this time. Encounters with rusty metal happened to normal people, too. The nurse didn't seem suspicious at all and left him with a promise that the doctor would be in to see him soon.

Dean estimated that meant he had about another half hour to wait.

The room was devoid of a tv or anything else entertaining save one magazine. So he sat there flipping through the magazine and analyzing the furniture and decor of expensive homes. It would have been embarrassing had his brother been present, because Dean found himself a bit more interested in curtains and kitchen appliances than he probably should have been.

A knock on the door had him dropping the magazine onto the seat next to him like it had burned his fingers. If the nurse noticed the blush creeping up his neck, she didn't mention it.

All she said was, "There's a guy who stopped by the front desk. Says he's your brother. Ok for him to come in?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded, trying to hide his surprise.

The nurse turned without another word and closed the door behind her. Dean checked his phone. No messages. And then he hurried up and looked at the last page of the article he'd been reading. Then he shoved the magazine behind a pile of brochures on things like influenza and urinary tract infections.

He'd just settled back in the chair in an attempt to appear completely casual when the door opened again and Sam stepped into the room.

"You see the doctor yet?"

Dean snorted. "You think I'd still be sitting here if I had?"

A pack of M&M's flew toward him and Dean managed to catch them before they connected

with his face. Sam perched on the edge of the exam table and took a sip of his coffee as he glanced around the tiny room. Buying time as he attempted to sort through this surprising turn of events, Dean opened the bag of candy and poured a handful out. He hadn't been expecting his brother to appear. Maybe he'd been worried.

"I got hungry," Sam said, as if he'd been reading Dean's mind. He was staring at the opposite wall, holding the coffee with both hands.

Dean studied him for a moment, not sure he believed his brother. "What did you find to eat?"

Sam waved a hand vaguely in his direction.

"M&Ms?" Dean asked, shaking his head. "Seriously?"

"Cafeteria was busy."

Which might be the truth. Or it might not be. Whatever the reason, pressing Sam for more details would be a bad idea. He didn't look particularly nervous or upset, but he also didn't seem quite right and Dean didn't want to cause an issue.

Dean held up the bag of candy and said, "Thanks."

Sam nodded, eyes on the cup in his hand now.

They were silent for a long time. Dean munched on the candy and tried not to let the ongoing silence bother him. He was beginning to wonder if the tetanus shot was worth the exceedingly long wait he was being forced to endure. Maybe the piece of metal hadn't been _that_ rusty.

"Remember the first time you had to get a tetanus shot?"

Dean looked up in surprise at Sam's comment. His brother still wasn't looking at him, but he sounded amused and it made Dean feel better.

"You cried."

"I did not." Dean tossed an M&M at his brother and was gratified when it bounced off his face.

Sam laughed, meeting his gaze for the first time. "You did."

"I was fourteen."

"Yes. You were." Sam was grinning now. "And you cried like a little girl."

Yeah. He had. Because it had freakin' _hurt_! Dean didn't bother continuing to deny it. He knew he would lose. Shaking his head, he said, "How do you remember all this embarrassing crap?"

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Dude, I have to remember it or I'd never have a defense against you and all the embarrassing crap you remember about me."

Dean had to admit he had a point. He grinned. "Competition time?"

"Yeah, no." Sam pushed himself off the exam table. "Just wanted to see if you needed to hold my hand like before when you get your shot. If you're good, I'm heading back to the car."

"I'm good and you're a friggin' jerk." Dean almost threw another M&M at him, but it was his last one and he'd rather eat it, so he refrained.

Sam left the room before Dean could say another word.

The door closed behind him with a soft click leaving Dean a bit stunned, a bit confused, and more than a bit worried. Maybe Sam really had been hungry. Or maybe it had been something else entirely. Eating his last M&M, Dean sighed and wished they could return to far simpler times. Times when his brother actually talked to him when things bothered him. Times when Dean had known exactly what to say to make everything better.

The doctor walked in before he could finish his list of wishes.

Thirty minutes later, Dean's right shoulder was as sore as his left side but, hey, at least he wasn't gonna die of tetanus. And he hadn't cried so that was a win, too. Returning to the car, he was relieved to find his brother in the passenger seat.

He hadn't been expecting anything different, honestly, and maybe he was being too controlling, but right now he needed to control something. Letting his brother out of his sight all those weeks ago had led to his brother running off in the middle of the night; chased by the devil until he got run over by a car.

Dean knew they were past all of that. But it didn't mean he was ready to take any chances. Sam had held it together perfectly on the hunt. It was on the ride to the hospital when the cracks had begun to show again.

He got into the car, deciding a pizza delivery was the perfect answer to most of their problems. He didn't feel like going anywhere and acting like everything was fine. From a quick glance at his brother, Dean had a pretty good feeling Sam felt the same way.

* * *

The day after their second successful hunt, Sam got up far too early again, but at least it was for a walk. He brought back coffee and breakfast and order was restored. They debated what to do next. The town seemed to offer no other odd occurrences and they still hadn't managed to scrounge up anything useful on Roman, but there didn't seem to be any point in going anywhere without a reason. So they played a few rounds of poker then cleaned the weapons. In the afternoon, Sam had taken another walk, longer than the first, and Dean went to a movie. After dinner, they'd gone to do laundry.

All in all, it had been such a good day that, had anyone told Dean this would be the night when it all came crashing down around them, he wouldn't have believed them.

* * *

 **I know, I know. I'm a horrible person. Evil cliffie. Sorry... ;)**


	46. Chapter 46

**Ok! Time for the much needed explosion that someone has determinedly been putting off for so long...**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 46**_

On the way back from the laundromat, Dean pulled over at an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town. It was late and it was pouring rain, but they didn't have anything better to do, so they went inside to do some sparring. The streetlights outside provided enough illumination through the broken windows for them to see. Neither of them were willing to admit weakness, but the last hunt had involved more running than the first. It had shown how out of shape they both were so they agreed getting some physical activity would be a good way to pass some time.

And for awhile it was.

He wasn't sure when it happened, when the restraint flew out the window, but it did. And it wasn't _his_ restraint. It was Sam's.

Dean dodged the first blow he could tell was going to hurt. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't back down from returning the favor and striking his brother in the shoulder a little harder than was strictly necessary. Something dangerous flickered in Sam's eyes and Dean realized right then this wasn't about sparring anymore. This wasn't even about Sam venting frustration.

The next punch left him seeing stars and Dean knew this was Sam well and truly out of control.

He didn't have time to give it more thought or open his mouth to say anything, because Sam was coming at him without mercy. Wouldn't be the first time they'd gone at each other no holds barred, but he hadn't intended for either of them to walk away from this fight with injuries. He tasted blood, though, and when Sam knocked his legs out from under him, Dean knew he was going to have a nice bruise.

Not to be outdone, he brought Sam down easily then jumped back to his feet, dodging a kick that would have hurt much more than his split lip or bruised tailbone.

"Damn it, Sam!" he shouted, swinging hard as his brother came up fast.

The blow snapped Sam's head to the side and he collapsed onto the dirty ground. Dean had a passing moment of worry that he'd hit him too hard, but Sam didn't stay down long. Wiping blood from his lips, Dean watched his brother pushing himself to his knees. He really hoped that would be the end of it, but he wasn't so lucky.

Sam was on his feet and plowing toward him, shoulder lowered. Dean braced himself but still wound up smashing into the wall. And then Sam unleashed what Dean could only guess was over a hundred years of pent up fury. As much as it sucked to be on the receiving end, he was oddly relieved it was happening. Maybe this was exactly what Sam needed to get past everything.

Of course, when he'd been hit a few times too many, and a _lot_ too hard, Dean knew he needed to rein it in before he wound up unconscious on the ground.

At first, it seemed like a losing battle, but he got one well placed blow in that had Sam crumpling to the side just enough for him to make a grab. Sam was pulling away, already struggling, but Dean grabbed him from behind and locked his arms around him. It was like holding onto a wild animal and Dean hoped he wasn't going to wind up with a broken nose from meeting with the back of his brother's head.

"Sam, stop. Stop!" Dean gritted his teeth as Sam shoved them backwards and he slammed into the wall again.

"Get off me!"

Dean maintained his iron grip as he breathlessly asked, "You gonna stop trying to kill me if I do?"

Sam didn't answer, but redoubled his efforts to get away and Dean should have realized right then that his movements weren't calculated anymore. They were panicked.

Getting shoved hard into the wall a third time was just about all Dean was prepared to take. Still holding Sam with his arms locked in front of him, Dean shouted, "Stop fighting. Stop."

"Get off me!"

This time, the change in Sam's movements did register with Dean. He wasn't fighting to inflict pain or injury, now he was fighting to escape and when he brokenly begged, "Get off me," for a third time, Dean immediately released him. Fear pounded through his veins as he was struck by the horrifying realization that he might have just done a whole lot more harm than good.

They both fell to their knees and Sam scrambled away as fast as he could move. He made it a few feet, then leaned up against the wall, on hands and knees, trying to catch his breath. Dean saw blood dripping from his mouth onto the ground as he coughed and gasped.

Pressing a hand to his ribs, Dean leaned back against the wall and let his legs splay out in front of him. Sucking in uneven breaths, he sat there and stared at his brother.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered after a moment. Spitting more blood onto the ground, he leaned sideways against the wall, raising his eyes briefly. He didn't quite make eye contact, but Dean had to give him credit for trying.

Running a hand over his mouth, Dean took a slow breath. "It's alright."

Sam shook his head, but didn't comment.

Dean let his head rest against the wall. He wasn't one hundred percent sure what had just happened, although he had some strong suspicions, but it hadn't been good. Where they went from here, he had no idea.

Movement caught his attention and he was surprised to see Sam pushing himself to his feet. He was unsteady and leaning on the wall as he said, "Again."

"What?" Dean's eyes widened.

"Again."

"Sam, no."

"Yes."

"I think-"

"Again." Sam's tone was flat, lifeless. Emotionless. "I've gotta get past this or I'm gonna get us killed on a hunt."

Sam's argument was logical, but, despite the lack of emotion in his voice, there was naked terror in his eyes.

Pushing himself to his feet, Dean said, "We're done for today."

For a split second, he expected another battle; verbal if not physical. He didn't get either. Sam turned around and walked away. Dean had no idea if he'd just blown it or not. But he couldn't allow things to continue. They were both already bleeding and bruised and, regardless of what his brother wanted, Dean couldn't put him through any more fighting.

Sam was in the car by the time Dean walked outside. Neither spoke the entire trip back to the motel and Sam was out of the car before Dean had it in park. Sitting there in front of the motel room, Dean wished he'd never suggested training because he felt like he might have just opened the door to something he shouldn't have. He gave his brother a few minutes, then grabbed the laundry and headed inside.

The shower was running, so Dean dumped the laundry on the table and flipped the television on and told himself he could wait for a drink. He was using it medicinally. Only to help him sleep. Hands fisted on his knees, he tried to concentrate on the television.

Once his brother finished in the shower, Dean took his turn.

By the time he finished in the shower, Sam was pretending to be asleep.

Dean left the lights and the tv on and locked the door behind him.

He walked up the street and found the nearest bar.

It was time to get drunk.

* * *

The sound of a body hitting the floor woke Sam a little after midnight. Sitting up, he fumbled to turn on the bedside lamp. He didn't bother reaching for his gun because the sound of the body hitting the floor had been accompanied by his brother's familiar cursing.

Once he had the light on, he caught sight of Dean over by the table, pulling himself to his feet.

"Are you drunk?" Sam asked, irritated with the thought and with the rude awakening.

"No."

"Then why were you on the floor?"

"Can't see in the dark, genius."

Sam studied him as he slumped into a chair and started unlacing his boots. It wasn't easy to tell if Dean was drunk or not. Ever since he'd taken drinking up as a professional sport, he'd become adept at disguising how much the alcohol affected him. Right now, he seemed unsteady, but he also seemed alert.

Dean glanced up at him before starting to pull his other boot off. "Go back to sleep."

 _Yeah right._ It had been a surprise that he'd fallen asleep in the first place. Once he'd realized Dean wasn't planning to return anytime soon, Sam had flipped off the lights and the tv and tried to go to sleep. It had only taken a couple hours of tossing and turning and a couple nightmares before true sleep had pulled him under. And now he was wide awake again, thanks to his stupid brother.

He'd been relieved when Dean had left earlier. After what had happened at the warehouse, Sam had needed the time on his own to sort through the complicated...mess. Of course, he hadn't put much effort into it because he knew what had happened and he knew why he'd reacted like he had and it was something he _never_ wanted to think about again. But he'd been relieved not to have to suffer through an interrogation.

It was probably still ahead, he figured. Dean wasn't likely to let something like that go without at least attempting to discuss it. At this point, if his brother ever even allowed him to go on another hunt, it would be a miracle. Not that Sam would blame him. If he couldn't get things under control, he _was_ going to get them killed.

Sam watched as Dean went for the cooler and pulled out a bottle of beer.

At midnight, after he'd just stumbled in from a bar.

Logically, he knew why Dean was drinking. He was drinking because he couldn't deal with any of it any more than Sam could deal with it. As Dean popped the top on the beer, Sam saw the past two weeks for what they were.

An illusion.

They'd done a good job, he had to admit. Lying to themselves. Lying to each other. But he was rapidly losing his ability to continue hiding how bad things really were. Dean was still drinking and still angry and suddenly the fact that his brother could just revert back to his standard setting as if nothing happened ripped something deep inside him.

Sam crossed the room in two steps, yanked the bottle out of Dean's hand and threw it against the opposite wall. The sound of glass shattering caused them both to jump.

Dean's jaw dropped. He shook his head. "What the hell, Sam?"

"You think you're the only one?" Sam shoved at his brother when Dean's hand automatically reached for another bottle. "The only one who gets to be angry about any of this?"

"Well, you're the one being angry right now, so-"

"You don't think I should be angry?" Sam asked, voice too loud.

He was crowding into Dean's personal space and the memory of how they'd come to all out blows earlier flashed through the red haze in his mind. It had been _his_ fault. And he hated himself for it as much as he hated himself for the fact that he _wanted_ Dean to take a swing at him right now.

Sam could smell the alcohol on Dean's breath as he said, "I think you have every right to be angry, Sam."

It hadn't been the response Sam had expected. It hit him harder than a physical blow would have done. He didn't know what to do with it.

Dean elbowed past him, but didn't go for the beer again. He sat down on the bed and ran his hands through his hair. Sam watched him, feeling like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Out of the room. Bracing a hand on the back of a chair, he waited. For what, he wasn't sure.

The world to end? To remember how to breathe? To wake up from the neverending nightmare?

"We need to talk about this."

There was no anger in Dean's tone. No fight. No force behind the words. Just a plain, simple fact. Sam shook his head and straightened, meeting his brother's concerned gaze head on.

"No. We don't."

Dean didn't say anything. Sam crossed the room and slammed the bathroom door behind him. He paused at the sink and turned the water up as high as it would go, then sat on the edge of the tub when his shaking legs refused to hold him up for even another split second.

The gravity of everything that had happened, the gravity of Dean's words, dragged him down and it was all he could do to not wind up flat on the floor. The edge of the tub bit into his fingers, but it registered merely because he was staring at his hand. He couldn't feel his fingers. Couldn't feel the tub. Couldn't feel anything. Lifting his heavy head, Sam visually confirmed the door was still standing and the water was still running. All he could hear was pulsing thunder in his ears. All he could feel was the pounding behind his ribs.

The world went a bit dim.

When he glanced at his watch, he was shocked to find only about twenty minutes had passed since Dean had walked back into the room. It had felt like hours. Stiff and cold, Sam pushed himself to his feet and turned the water off. He couldn't stay contained in this small space for even a second longer. If Dean was still up, then he'd grab his shoes and go for a walk rather than engage in a verbal battle with his brother at this hour of the night.

Pulling the door open, Sam prepared for what was sure to be a fight. But there was no fight awaiting him. The bedside lamp was still on, but Dean was sound asleep on top of the covers where he'd been sitting earlier.

Relief swept over him, but without the fight he'd been anticipating, Sam was at a loss. He stood in the doorway for a moment, glancing from his brother to his own bed. The chances of him being able to sleep now were laughable. But exhaustion weighed on him, leaving him without options. He knew he wouldn't be able to go far even if he did make it out the door. As he was about to admit defeat and sit down, he caught sight of the wet shimmer on the far wall from the beer he'd taken from Dean.

Looking at the table, Sam considered opening one to see if it would help.

And then he skipped the middle-man and went straight for the bottle Dean had been trying to keep hidden. There was more liquor in it than he'd expected, which was good for two reasons. One, because it meant Dean wasn't drinking as much as Sam had thought he was, and two, because there was enough for him to take a few healthy shots without it being missed.

Tucking the bottle back into Dean's gear when he was finished, Sam stumbled back to his bed. Flipping the light off, he lay down and stared at the ceiling. The alcohol added to his lethargy, but wasn't enough for him to pass out. His entire body was shaking and Sam knew he should get up and just finish the bottle.

Before he could, though, the sleep he hadn't expected to get swept over him and the nightmares swallowed him whole.

* * *

Dean woke up from a deep sleep to the sound of his own name.

Confused, he scrubbed at his eyes and tried to make sense of what was happening. The room was dark and the display on the clock read out just after one. Memory filtered in like the glow of the street light outside the window. He remembered the fight at the warehouse, going to the bar, the argument that had culminated in Sam slamming the bathroom door and him falling asleep.

It hadn't even been an hour.

He heard Sam call his name again and Dean pushed himself upright; the motion leaving him seasick and all but reaching for a trash can. One hand pressed to his mouth, one braced against the edge of the mattress, he glanced over at the other bed. Heart sinking, Dean sat there for a moment, trying to gauge if his intervention was needed.

There was no thrashing or screaming this time, but somehow, the way Sam was curled in on himself and lying there so still seemed worse.

Shifting until he was sitting on the edge of his bed, Dean ran a hand through his hair and waited. Nothing much happened for a few minutes. Swallowing hard, he almost regretted not having just gone home with Marissa or Marina or whatever her name had been. She'd been hot, available, and willing. But, walking out the door with her, he'd caught sight of the flickering motel sign and had kissed her goodbye.

Because much as he needed a night off, he'd known in his gut that he shouldn't leave his brother alone. After what had happened at the warehouse, he knew he shouldn't have gone out at all. But he'd gone anyway and their brief interaction when he'd returned had shown him exactly what a mistake that decision had been.

He debated his options now; fall back into bed and maybe get some more sleep or grab a drink and _definitely_ get some more sleep.

And then his plans changed when he heard Sam's desperate whispers.

"Please. Please, not again. Please stop."

Dean's heart hit his unsettled stomach at the fear in Sam's voice. His eyes were still closed tightly and he hadn't moved much except now he had a shaking hand out in defense. It was worrying, but Dean hesitated a moment longer. Every time it was a toss up whether it was better to wake him up or let him wake up on his own.

The results were mixed either way.

But when Sam started calling his name again, _begging_ him to come help - in between pleading things like _no more_ and a never ending litany of _please_ and _stop, -_ Dean couldn't take it any longer.

"Sam!" He was off the bed and on his knees in front of the other bed in a heartbeat. His voice had been louder in the quiet of the room than he'd expected and Sam flinched like he'd been hit, but his eyes didn't open.

 _Shit!_

Careful to lower his voice, Dean tried again, "Hey, come on, wake up."

It had no effect and when Sam begged once again _please stop,_ Dean lost it.

Sam had his right hand extended, but Dean grabbed for his left and squeezed hard enough that he knew it would hurt. It was an old trick, but he hoped it would pull Sam out of whatever horror he was dreaming about.

The contact startled his brother and he tried to pull away. Dean kept squeezing Sam's hand and calling his name.

Aware that _he_ was begging, Dean heard his voice break when he said, "Sammy, I'm right here. Wake up. Please."

At that, Sam woke up, and Dean was the one startled this time. He was rendered speechless by the sheer horror in his brother's wide eyes. Sam wasn't looking around the room in a panic, he was meeting Dean's gaze as he sucked in a deep, gasping breath.

He was still squeezing Sam's hand and now the grip was returned.

Dean could almost hear the bones in his hand cracking as Sam tightened his hold. He hadn't found his voice and Sam had begun taking uneven, shaky breaths, but their gaze, and their grip, never faltered. Suddenly, Sam grabbed Dean's wrist with his right hand and pulled him closer. Elbows braced on the bed, Dean didn't pull away.

And then it was like something broke.

As if everything he'd kept so tightly controlled could no longer be contained, Sam started sobbing.

Dean couldn't speak, didn't know what to do. Never in his life, not even after Jessica's death, had Sam cried like this. It was terrifying and awful and Dean couldn't do anything to stop it or make it better. Powerless, all he could do was not let go.

Sam's cries broke his heart and even though nothing, _nothing,_ could ever be as painful as watching his brother die at Cold Oak, this was fast becoming a close second. Dean felt like a knife was between his ribs and he wanted to run. Run out and find a tire iron and take everything out on the Pacer like he'd done to the Impala all those years ago. Run back to the bar and drink himself to death.

But he didn't. Twice now, he'd left his brother behind for the bottle and he wasn't doing it again. Even if he _had_ been able to break free of his brother's grip. Dean wasn't sure which of them was hanging on more tightly, but the simple fact was he wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon.

Sam was crying so hard he started coughing and Dean wanted to tell him to stop. To calm down. But he couldn't. Dean knew words were meaningless in the face of the absolute grief he was witnessing; was _feeling._

He bit his lip, trying to fight back the tears. They slipped down his cheeks despite his best efforts. Sam had his forehead pressed against their entwined hands and Dean lowered his own head to rest against the edge of the bed, never loosening his grip on his brother.

The bed was shaking with the force of Sam's sobs and Dean pressed his head harder against the edge, hating that this was their life; that this was what it all came down to. They'd screwed up plenty. Both of them had. But they'd screwed up while fighting a destiny that had been forced upon them. A destiny they didn't deserve. They'd fought angels and demons and everything in between in order to save the world and this was what was left of them.

Alcoholism and soul-deep trauma.

Shattered pieces.

He lifted his head at the sound of pained gasping. Sam's last coughing fit had left him hyperventilating and Dean knew he had to intervene. He shook their hands and Sam finally looked at him; the depth of his panic and pain clear in his swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

"Sam, you gotta take a breath," Dean said, voice rough and unsteady. "Please, please, slow it down, man."

He was making an effort. It was obvious Sam was trying and that was more than Dean had actually expected given how out of control he was. He took a few deep breaths, then went back to crying so hard that Dean wished he _had_ driven them both off a pier like he'd threatened on the voicemail he'd left for Bobby.

It might have been kinder.

Dean dragged himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and shook his hand to try to focus Sam's attention. He intended to pull his brother up so he could catch his breath, but Sam just pressed up closer to him, never letting go of his arm. Dean let him be and rested his head in his free hand. It did nothing to ease the pounding in his temples.

Lowering his hand, he looked down at his brother and felt another tear slip down his face. He wondered if he'd ever regain feeling in his left hand after the way Sam was squeezing the life out of it. Not that he wasn't holding on just as tightly.

Resting his right hand on Sam's head, he brushed back the sweaty bangs, then just left his hand there and let his brother cry.

It felt like hours before he calmed down. Sam's grip eased but didn't fully release and Dean looked down at him, not pulling his hand away. Sam looked dazed and half-conscious at best. He'd probably fall back to sleep if Dean didn't disturb him. But he was swallowing like it hurt.

Dean's own throat felt painful and his voice was raw when he whispered, "Water?"

Sam stared at him for a long time, then nodded once, finally releasing his grip on Dean's left arm.

It was numb. Felt like a dead weight. Before getting up from the edge of the bed, Dean took a moment to rub some life back into it. Sam's eyes slid closed and if it hadn't been for his congested breathing, Dean would have worried he'd simply given up and died right there in front of his eyes.

"Stay awake," Dean said, squeezing Sam's wrist where it lay on his chest.

Sam didn't answer, but pressed a hand to his eyes. Dean dragged himself to his feet to stumble across the room for the cooler. Sitting back on the edge of the bed, he almost pushed Sam to sit up and take a drink, but he held off.

Instead, he sat there, dripping wet bottle in his hands, and waited for Sam to make the first move. It took five minutes before he lowered his hand from his eyes. Dean glanced at him but remained silent. Sam held out his hand. Taking the cap off the bottle, Dean handed it to him and waited for him to sit up. All he did was lean on his elbow enough to take a sip before collapsing back so quickly that Dean almost didn't catch the bottle in time.

His hands were shaking as he set the bottle on the nightstand. Studying his brother, Dean had to assume Sam's head was pounding even worse than his was. "Tylenol?"

Sam just stared at him, tears running down his face, breathing unsteady.

Dean repeated, "Tylenol."

Crossing the room again, he fumbled through their gear till he found the medication. Shaking out four, he dry swallowed two, then took the other two back to his brother. Wearily, Sam pushed himself up to his elbow again and took the pills with another sip of water.

Sinking back into the pillow, Sam stared up at him. Dean wanted to tell him he was safe. Tell him to go back to sleep. But he kept his mouth shut. Because he never had been able to find a way to protect his brother when he was trapped in his own dreams. Having suffered from plenty of his own nightmares, Dean knew the prospect of going back to sleep was sometimes as terrifying as the nightmare itself had been.

So instead of saying or doing anything, he just sat there and held Sam's gaze.

Sam shook his head and whispered, "Dean."

"I know. I know, Sammy."

And he really did.

Fresh tears started, but they were quiet this time; like Sam didn't have the strength to do anything but allow the tears to fall. Dean sat there, exhaustion settling over him like a heavy cloak. He pulled the blankets up over his brother, then left his hand resting on Sam's chest. After a few seconds, Sam grasped Dean's wrist again.

Dean sat there for an hour before Sam finally faded back to sleep. And then he sat there a little longer, just to be sure, as he prayed to whoever was listening that this had been the worst of it.

That Sam would be ok.

Once he felt somewhat confident that Sam wasn't going to wake up again anytime soon, he dragged himself the short distance to his bed. Crawling under the covers, Dean settled on his side, facing his brother.

It took a long time before he was able to fall asleep.

* * *

The next morning Dean went to the office and paid for another night thirty minutes before they should have been checking out.

And then he stood in the parking lot for another ten minutes before pulling his phone out of his pocket. Dean stared at it for a long time then shoved it back in his pocket and walked back to the room.

Sam was where he'd left him. In bed. Pretending to sleep.

By now he knew he wasn't going to get much in the way of conversation, so Dean grabbed the laptop and sat down at the table. He spent over an hour searching for anything remotely odd or potentially leviathan-related. Eerily, the monster front seemed to be quiet. It made him nervous. Not as much as the continued silence in the room did, though.

For another thirty minutes, he played solitaire online while fighting the urge to go shake his brother until he got up or at least started bitching and maybe throwing punches.

Anything would be better than the listlessness.

When he couldn't stand it any more, Dean slammed the laptop closed and, because he knew Sam was awake and listening, said, "I'm going for lunch."

The statement elicited no response, as he'd expected, so he walked out of the room and locked the door behind him. The thought of hitting up the bar and doing more than sipping a beer crossed his mind, but Dean was feeling sick to his stomach and wasn't remotely interested in pushing his luck. He crossed the street and suffered through a burger that probably hadn't been half bad. But he was too keyed up to pay any attention to the food. He spent the entire time staring back across the street at the motel and wondering what he was supposed to do now.

An hour passed. Dean ignored everything around him and no one disturbed him. He pulled his phone out again. No texts, no missed calls. Nothing.

Pushing himself to his feet, he walked out of the truck stop restaurant and wandered to the far edge of the parking lot and dialed. The phone picked up in two rings.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Arla," Dean said, relief flooding him at the sound of her voice.

"Dean. Is everything alright?"

 _How well she knows us,_ Dean thought. Looking back at the motel, he pressed his fist to his stomach and said, "No."

"What's wrong?"

"Uh...things...things have been ok."

"That's good. But they're not ok now?"

"No."

"Tell me what happened," Arla said, and something about how calm she sounded helped Dean relax to a degree.

Dean stared back at the motel. "He won't get out of bed."

There was a brief pause, then Arla asked, "Is he feeling worse?"

"Yeah. I mean...not from the cold or whatever. I guess. I don't know." Dean ran his hand through his hair and almost regretted calling her. It had seemed like the only thing to do, but now that he was talking to her, he found himself hedging and avoiding the truth. "He wouldn't get up this morning. Said he was tired and that's...that's about all he's said actually."

"It's not unreasonable," Arla said gently. "He's going to be tired for a long time. You both will be."

Dean knew she was right but she didn't understand the _rest_ of it. Because he wasn't telling her. He knew he should say something, but she filled the silence before he could.

"You're worried it's more than just being tired."

"Yeah."

"It probably is. Did something specific happen?"

Dean sighed. He'd called her for help; time to be honest. "Yesterday...didn't go well. And then he had a nightmare last night. A really bad one. It was the worst one I've seen in a long time. And he just kind of-"

Breaking off, Dean glanced at the motel again. Confiding in Arla was one thing; telling her his brother had spent nearly fifteen minutes sobbing inconsolably was something else entirely.

"Dean?"

"He fell apart," Dean said, heart in his throat at the memory. "I've never seen him like that. Never."

"I'm sure this is going to sound odd, but it may have been the best thing for him," Arla said. "This entire time, he's been internalizing everything he's gone through. Yes, he's said a little here and there, but mostly he's been very quiet. Sometimes you can't completely put yourself back together until you allow yourself to fall completely apart."

Dean snorted even though he wasn't amused at all. "I'd say he fell completely apart."

"I know how difficult it must have been for you. For both of you. I'm so sorry."

"What am I supposed to do now?"

"Depends on what Sam needs."

Dean snorted again. "How'm I gonna figure that out when he's said like four words to me all day?"

"I'll be honest with you, Dean. I don't have a perfect answer." Arla sighed. "This is complicated, I know. I'm guessing you're not in the room right now?"

"Across the street."

"Ok. How long have you been gone?"

Dean glanced at his watch. "Just over an hour."

"My best suggestion is that you go back and take a nap."

"What?" Dean almost dropped the phone. "A _nap_ is your solution?"

"Yes." He could hear the smile in her voice. "He had a terrible night and he's tired and needs to rest. It's more than just the need for physical rest, I realize. After what he went through last night, he needs the day for some mental rest. You aren't back to full health yourself, so I think a little rest would do you good. The fact you're getting some rest might help Sam feel better, too. I'm sure he's struggling badly right now. If he knows you're resting, that you aren't putting any pressure on him or yourself, he might be able to relax."

Even though he saw what she was getting at, it sounded absurd and had it been anyone else suggesting a _nap,_ he would have laughed and hung up the phone. Rubbing at the gnawing pain in his gut, he asked, "You really think him lying around all day is the solution? He hasn't eaten since-"

"He'll eat when he's ready to eat, Dean," Arla interrupted him. "And he'll get out of bed when he's ready to get out of bed."

"I don't know-"

"I don't know, either, honey, but you getting angry with him isn't going to help anything."

Dean sighed and knew she was right. Discovering his brother had no intention of moving had frustrated him at first, but frustration had given way quickly to fear.

"Fine," he said, staring at the motel. "I'll try it. What am I supposed to do if he won't get out of bed tomorrow?"

This time the silence was a bit longer and Dean frowned.

Arla finally spoke up, "Hopefully it won't be an issue. But if it is, give me a call, ok?"

"Sure."

"And I know you have a life to get back to and I don't expect you to check in with me every day, but will you promise me something?" Arla went on quickly. "You don't even need to call. Just drop me a quick text every once in awhile to let me know you boys are ok. Please?"

Dean smiled. It was weird. Growing up the way he had, he'd never had to call his folks if he was late getting home from a date or if he wanted to hang out at a friend's house. As long as he'd been where his father wanted him for a hunt, he'd had plenty of freedom growing up. So it felt a little weird having someone who wanted him to check in with them. Someone who cared how things were going. Who cared about them.

"I'll text you," Dean said, walking toward the motel. "I promise."

"Thank you. Now, are you going back to your room?"

"As we speak."

"Good boy. Go get some sleep and be patient with yourself and with your brother, ok?"

"Yes, ma'am." Dean smiled as he jogged across the street.

She laughed and said good bye.

Pocketing the phone, Dean pulled out the keys and took a deep breath before unlocking the door. Uncertain what to expect, he hoped for the best and pushed the door open. The room was only lit from the outside light filtering in around the curtains but he didn't turn on the lights.

He didn't need to turn the lights on.

The knot of pressure in his chest unravelled a little as he took in the sight of his brother sound asleep and relaxed. Sam hadn't been sleeping all morning. He'd just been lying there either staring at the wall and ignoring everything around him or pretending to be asleep. Now, though, he was actually sleeping and Dean felt a stirring of hope.

Quietly locking the door behind him, Dean sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled his boots off. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes and realized that maybe Arla had been right about him needing a nap, too. For a moment, he sat there watching Sam sleep, then he flopped back against his pillows and tugged the covers up over himself.

* * *

The first time Sam woke up, it was to the sound of his brother snoring. Blinking in the dim light, Sam floundered until he caught sight of the clock. Going on three in the afternoon. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looked over at the other bed and tried to decide if his mind was playing tricks on him or if Dean really was sound asleep in the middle of the day.

It looked pretty legitimate to him, but he didn't feel up to trying to figure out why Dean was taking a nap so he just rolled over, pulled the covers up over his shoulders and fell back to sleep in a matter of moments.

The second time Sam woke up, the room was darker and quiet. For a moment, he didn't move. Trying to gather his thoughts and surface from the fog took all his energy. It didn't take too long for him to remember why he was still in bed at five pm, though.

When the alarm had gone off at seven am, rousing him from a heavy sleep, he hadn't been able to move.

Because the very first clear thought in his head was the memory of the nightmare. It had crushed the strength right out of him before he'd even been fully awake. Although the terror had faded, the dream was still crystal clear in his mind.

It hadn't even been a new dream. It hadn't been anything he hadn't suffered through before. But when Dean had drawn him out of it, Sam had lacked the strength to hold the tidal wave of emotion back. It was as if his very soul had known it was safe. Known it was time. It had finally been just the two of them. Dean had said, _I know,_ and Sam knew he really did.

Dean had been unbelievably patient today, all things considered. Hadn't pressed for details, hadn't pushed him to get up, although his tension and worry had been palpable. Sam wanted to thank him for that and for the support during the night. For not leaving him when he was losing it so spectacularly.

There had only been one other time in his entire life when he'd cried like he had last night. It had been the night he and Bobby had buried Dean.

This had been bad, but it paled in comparison to the devastation he'd felt that day.

Groaning, he rubbed his eyes and pushed himself upright. He couldn't believe Dean had left him alone all day. He felt like an idiot. They'd lost another entire day because of him. Glancing at the other bed, Sam did have to admit that Dean had taken a nap. So maybe it hadn't been entirely his fault. Maybe his brother was still feeling sick, too.

That concern motivated Sam to sit up and flip on the lamp on the nightstand. He felt stiff and achy and almost wished he hadn't left the heavy-duty painkillers behind. The other bed was empty as was the room. He glanced at the nightstand and found the bottle of Tylenol next to a bottle of water. There was a folded piece of paper sitting on top of his phone and he reached for it. The paper was addressed to _Sleeping Beauty._

Sam smiled, shaking his head as he unfolded the note.

 _Text option #1 for pizza, #2 for burgers. There is no write-in on the ballot. This town only has a burger joint and a pizza place. Sucks, I know. Text #3 if you want me to leave you alone._

 _I don't know what you need right now, Sammy, and I get that you probably don't either. But I'm here, ok? That's all I've got. I'm here._

Blinking back the tears, Sam stared at the note for a long time wondering when exactly his brother had become so damn perceptive. And then he texted back, _#1 and #4._

Waiting with the phone in his hand, Sam debated taking a quick shower before dinner arrived or if he should just close his eyes again and rest till then. He didn't feel much better than he had earlier, but at least he was functional for the first time all day. Forcing himself to move, he headed for the table.

Sitting down, he tugged the curtain back a bit to see what kind of day he'd been missing. And then he did a double take. Because right outside the window, sitting on the curb, was his brother.

The phone buzzed in his hand and he let the curtain fall closed.

 _Pizza it is. What the hell is #4?_

Sam smiled, texted _#4 is the opposite of #3, Jerk,_ and peeked back out the window.

Dean looked at his phone. The tension went out of his shoulders and, for a moment, he sat there with his head in his hand. Then he texted something back, stood up and walked to the car. He got behind the wheel with a smile on his face.

Waiting until the Pacer had pulled out of the parking lot, Sam glanced down at his phone to read the text.

 _Bitch._

Sam grinned, flipped the overhead light on and headed for the shower.

* * *

 **Look at that! No cliffhanger! You're welcome. :D Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed the chapter.**


	47. Chapter 47

**Hello! hope you've all had a great week! Thanks a million for all the wonderful reviews to ch 46!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 47**_

Dean slid behind the wheel and set the pizza on the seat next to him. Starting the Pacer, he looked at his phone again. No new messages. He smiled anyway because he'd already received the one that mattered. Sam's response had surprised him, but left him hopeful.

The return trip didn't take long and, as he pulled into the parking space in front of room 25, Dean felt a flutter of nervousness. Putting the car into park, he stared at the door and tried to tell himself not to be stupid. Fretting about whether he was going to say, or do, the wrong thing wasn't going to help him and it wasn't going to help Sam. He - _they_ \- needed to get past this whole mess and it wasn't going to happen if he didn't allow things to get back to normal.

"Act normal," Dean whispered as he opened the car door.

Of course, they'd been trying for weeks now to _act_ normal and it hadn't exactly been a successful venture. Dean grabbed the pizza and got out of the car, wondering if maybe that was the exact reason they'd been failing so spectacularly. Closing the door, he considered the possibility that, in attempting to act like everything was normal, they'd both been doing more harm than good.

Maybe they needed to stop acting like everything was fine and acknowledge that everything _wasn't_ fine.

Pizza in hand, he fumbled with the keys to the room. He had no idea what to expect now. And no idea what he should do. Dean took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The tv was on and Sam was sitting back against the headboard of his bed, one leg on the bed, one on the floor. He looked half asleep, but blinked and turned his head when Dean closed the door.

"Hey," Dean said, awkwardly standing in the middle of the room.

"Hey." Sam's voice sounded rough, but he smiled a little which helped ease some of Dean's nerves.

"Anything good on?" Dean asked, just to fill the silence.

Sam looked back at the television. Dropping the remote on the edge of the bed, he shrugged. "Not really."

When no further conversation seemed forthcoming, Dean busied himself with shoving everything on the table to one side so he could put the pizza box down. He opened the box, breathed in the scent of the pizza and realized how hungry he was.

"Smells good." Sam was at his side, already reaching for a piece.

"Better taste good," Dean muttered, picking up his own slice. "It was expensive."

Sam sat down and Dean spared a quick glance while they both took their first bites. On first impression, the pizza wasn't half bad and his brother didn't look as terrible as Dean had expected. His hair was damp and he'd changed into fresh clothes, although his eyes were still red-rimmed and the aura of exhaustion that had surrounded him for weeks now hadn't disappeared.

 _At least he got out of bed,_ Dean reminded himself, pulling out the other chair.

"It's not bad," Sam said quietly. He looked up and his smile was brief and he only held eye contact for a split second, but it was better than nothing.

"Yeah. It better be for that price. Glad we don't live here and have to pay that kind of price for a pizza every week." Dean snorted, then settled back in the chair and concentrated on his slice.

They fell silent after that, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Sure, on a normal day they probably would have been discussing an upcoming case or the one they'd just finished. They'd probably be watching something even if it sucked. But today wasn't a normal day. Normal or not, it was just them, the quiet, and an expensive pizza.

Two slices was all Dean could manage of the overpriced pizza before his stomach began protesting. He looked down at the box, longing for another bite, but knowing he would regret it. Glancing up, he found Sam had his eyes squeezed closed and both hands pressed to his forehead.

Dean looked back at the pizza because he didn't want Sam to catch him studying him with what was probably a concerned look on his face.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He chanced another look since Sam had initiated the conversation.

Sam lowered his hands and slumped sideways in the chair until his head was resting against the wall. "Tylenol?"

"You didn't take any when you got up?"

"I got distracted."

"Headache?" Dean asked even though he knew the answer. He crossed the room to grab the bottle of Tylenol.

"Yeah," Sam said, accepting the bottle and tapping out two pills.

"Yeah. Me too." Dean admitted, rubbing his own forehead. He pointed at the pizza box. "You want any more of that?"

"No."

Dean closed the top of the box and accepted the Tylenol when Sam pushed it back his way.

"You don't have to stop eating."

"I don't stop, it's all gonna come back up," Dean said, fumbling with the pill bottle.

Sam frowned. "You feelin sick?"

Dean rocked his hand back and forth. "I've been better."

"Me too."

Dean sat back in the chair and sighed.

Sam sighed too, rubbing his head again and pushing himself to his feet. He was a bit unsteady as he stood up, but Dean didn't move. Sam recovered easily and moved out of his sight. A moment later, Dean heard the groan of the mattress springs as his brother flopped heavily onto it.

It was early. Wasn't even close to dark outside. Right about now, on a normal day, he'd be heading out. Hit a bar and scare up some more funds. Drink his fill of liquor.

His thoughts drifted to the bottle of whiskey that was still stashed in the bottom of his bag. Looking over his shoulder, he considered digging it out and at least sitting on the front step for awhile. Of course, the main issue with that plan was the fact his stomach was still queasy. So he scratched that idea.

Dean pushed himself to his feet and flipped off the lights. Crossing the room, he sat down on the edge of his bed and looked at his brother. Sam was sprawled out on his stomach, face in the pillow.

"Let's play hooky."

"What?" Dean frowned, staring at his brother's back.

Sam rolled over until he was looking up at the ceiling. "Let's...just take a couple days off, ok?"

Dean was surprised by what he was hearing and didn't know how to respond.

"Never mind."

"No. Hey, don't do that." Dean shook his head, gratified to see Sam looking at him. "I just...I just had to think about it. And I think it's a good idea."

"Yeah?" Sam didn't sound sure.

"Yeah. You always want me to be honest, right? Well honestly I feel like shit. Besides, I didn't find anything when I was looking for a case earlier." Dean ran a hand through his hair then lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, too. "I'm sure Roman is up to no good, but it's nothing big right now anyway. I didn't even see anything remotely freaky or evil happening in this lousy little town or a hundred mile radius."

Sam laughed half-heartedly. "Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something."

"Maybe."

They fell silent for a long time and Dean almost wondered if Sam had fallen asleep. But when he glanced over again, Sam was still looking at the ceiling. Dean closed his eyes and tried to turn his mind off. To shut down and fall asleep.

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

"I don't know how to talk about it," Sam whispered so quietly that Dean almost missed his words entirely. "Any of it."

Dean swallowed hard, wondering if Sam had really intended for him to hear his comment. Sam didn't say anything more and Dean stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what he was supposed to say in response. He was tempted to see if he could convince his brother to call Arla or Tommy. They knew how to handle this stuff better than he did. The suggestion died in his head before he could even open his mouth.

When the silence went on for a full minute, Dean bit the bullet and asked softly, "Do you want to?"

It took another minute, then Sam said, "No."

The uncertainty hung heavy in the air and Dean held his breath.

"You think I should."

"No. I mean...I guess. Maybe?" Dean cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. "I don't know, Sam."

"Yeah." Sam sighed heavily. "Me neither."

This time the silence went on long enough that Dean found himself having difficulty keeping his eyes open.

Then Sam broke the silence. "Let's go catch a movie."

"What, now?" Dean asked, shocked and not entirely happy about his nap being interrupted.

"Yeah. Now." Sam rolled onto his side and asked, "You weren't going to sleep, were you?"

Well, he _might_ have gone to sleep. But he was thrown off balance by Sam's out of the blue comment and abrupt change in topic. He decided he should allow Sam to be in control of if and when he'd bring the topic up again.

So Dean groaned and sat up on the edge of the bed. "It's too early. I already feel old, Sammy. Turning in before seven, though? I'm not that old."

Sam smiled and pushed himself up until he was sitting on the edge of his bed, too.

Dean returned the smile and said, "There better be an action flick or something scary cuz I'm not sitting through some rom-com. We clear?"

"Scary stuff or explosions. I can handle that." Sam nodded, pulling his boots on.

Dean tossed Sam his jacket. "I'm getting popcorn."

"Works for me."

Sam held the door open and Dean locked it once they were outside. They paused on the front step. Dean pulled the keys out and asked, "You wanna-"

"Not today." Sam shook his head, the very movement seeming to take more energy than he possessed, and headed for the passenger side door. "Ask me in a few days, ok?"

"Sure." Dean frowned as he got behind the wheel. "You sure you wanna go? We can go another-"

"No it's fine." Sam waved his hand, settling back in the seat. "I...I'm not gonna be able to sleep right now anyway."

"Ok." Dean started the car and hoped for the best.

* * *

"Sir?"

Sam woke up to the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

"Sir? It's...uh...it's past closing time."

Rubbing his eyes, Sam realized it was a theater attendant talking to him. The lights were on and the theater was empty. A quick glance to his left found Dean slouched down in his seat, sound asleep.

"Yeah." Sam smiled at the girl. "Yeah, sorry. We'll...uh..we'll go. Sorry."

"It's ok." The light glinted off her braces as she smiled. "Long day, huh?"

"You have no idea," Sam said as the girl returned to sweeping the aisle. He turned and shoved at Dean's shoulder. "Hey. Wake up."

"What?" Dean woke up with a start, fists up and fighting ready.

"Take it easy, man. It's just me."

Dean blinked a few times and looked around like he couldn't make sense of anything.

Sam smiled and said, "Theater's closed."

"Time's it?" Dean shoved himself upright, squinting at his watch and sending the popcorn bucket tumbling.

"After one."

"In the _morning?"_

"Yes, in the morning." Sam laughed.

Dean shook his head, stared at his watch a moment longer, then looked down at the popcorn mess. He caught sight of the girl sweeping and said, "Uh...sorry 'bout the mess."

She waved a hand. "No biggie. I get paid by the kernel."

"What? Really?" Dean looked dumbfounded.

"No, not really." She laughed and kept sweeping.

Enjoying the embarrassment on his brother's face, Sam got to his feet and yawned. Rubbing his neck, he regretted falling asleep in a theater seat. Of course, he'd slept, so he couldn't complain too much. Once Dean was standing up, they headed for the door.

"How did we manage to sleep until one am in a theater?" Sam asked, pushing the door open and stepping out into the cool evening air.

Dean shrugged, fumbling for the keys and dropping them twice. "Boring movie I guess. I mean, I thought it was good the first time, but the second time-"

"Second time?" Sam stopped in his tracks. He looked at his watch because now _he_ was confused.

"Yes, genius." Dean rolled his eyes. Resting his arms on the top of the car, he said, "You fell asleep halfway through the movie. The _second_ movie. You remember it was still early so we decided to watch a second movie?"

"Yeah, that I remember."

"Well, you fell asleep halfway through it. When it was over, I figured what the hell. So I went for more popcorn and bought tickets for the next showing."

"Wow." Sam opened the door and sat down, stifling another yawn. "When's the last time we did a double, no, triple feature?"

"No clue." The engine roared to life as Dean accelerated much more quickly than was probably necessary.

Sam sank back into the seat. "Just so you know, I'm sleeping in tomorrow."

"Today."

"Yeah, whatever. I'm sleeping in. You're on your own for coffee."

This time Dean was the one yawning. He said, "Fine. But just so _you_ know, we're not staying in this town another night so you gotta drag your lazy ass outta bed before check-out. I need more options than burgers and pizza."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "More options? Pizza and burgers are your two staples."

"Yeah, well I also like options. So we're hittin' the road."

Sam smiled. "Sounds good."

And it really did.

* * *

Dean woke to the sight of his brother sitting on the edge of the other bed, head in his hands. It was ten after seven and Dean had a strong feeling Sam had been up for a long time. _So much for sleeping in,_ he thought ruefully.

"You sleep at all?" Dean asked, pushing himself upright and rubbing his eyes.

Sam shrugged without lifting his head. It was the response Dean had anticipated but not the one he'd hoped for. Sitting up on the edge of his own bed opposite his brother, Dean found himself formulating a plan for the day. One Sam was almost certain to argue against. Which was why Dean didn't intend to tell him the plan.

As it turned out, Sam made it easier when he pushed himself to his feet and said, "I'm gonna take a walk."

"Ok." Dean nodded. He knew Sam was surprised at his easy agreement. Sam didn't comment, though, merely began getting dressed. Dean did the same and said, "I'll pick up breakfast."

"Sure."

This time he received a split second of eye contact before Sam turned away and headed for the door without another word. Dean didn't stop him even if his instincts were telling him not to let his brother out of his sight.

Once he was dressed, Dean grabbed his wallet and keys and headed for the car. A quick peek up the road showed that Sam had gone in the opposite direction from town. Dean had expected as much. Not that it really mattered because Dean was going twenty miles past this town into the next, larger town up the road.

The one with the walk-in clinic he'd seen advertised on a bulletin board at the truck stop. He hadn't thought much about it at the time, but now, after everything that had happened in the past two days, he knew drastic measures were needed.

Sam wasn't going to appreciate what Dean had planned, but he didn't need to appreciate it.

And he wasn't going to be given an option. Or an alternative.

* * *

As he walked, Sam tried to put it all into perspective. Tried not to dwell on the fact he was so tired he was stumbling more than walking. Tried to remind himself of how much better things were getting. It just wasn't easy when all he could think about was the way he'd fallen apart in front of his brother. Would have been bad enough had he been alone at the time, but breaking down the way he had with Dean as a witness was the worst scenario he could ever have imagined.

Sam had to pause, leaning against a parked car and pressing a hand to his forehead when the pulsing headache got to be too much.

He shouldn't have rushed out of the room before grabbing some Tylenol. It didn't do much, but it took the edge off. He had to assume he was getting the constant headaches because of the ongoing stress and continued lack of quality sleep. Massaging his forehead, Sam realized he was ready to admit he needed help.

It might even be time to admit he needed a doctor.

* * *

Dean shoved the door open and dragged himself out of the car, feeling weighty exhaustion pressing down on him. For a moment, he paused there in the parking lot, one hand resting on the top of the car as he stared at the clinic. It had seemed like a good idea, the _only_ option, earlier. Now, he was second-guessing himself.

Taking a deep breath, he determined not to retreat, entered the clinic and went to the front desk.

The clerk looked up with a smile and asked, "How can I help you, sir?"

"Uh...I need to...I guess...see a doctor," Dean stumbled over his words and felt like a fool for it.

The clerk didn't seem bothered by his hesitation. She handed him a clipboard and a pen and said, "Fill this out and mark your symptoms on the form at the back and a nurse will call you shortly."

Taking the clipboard, Dean sat down and started filling the form out. At least the place had a flat fee and he could pay cash. Finishing the form, he glanced at the time and knew he better make this quick or his brother was going to get suspicious. Luck was in his favor, though. The clinic was empty and the nurse called him back five minutes after he'd finished the form. Another ten minutes and the doctor entered the room and asked what had brought him into the clinic.

Dean swallowed hard and said, "I've...uh...I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping."

It wasn't entirely a lie. He _was_ having trouble sleeping although his trouble sleeping had more to do with _Sam's_ trouble sleeping than anything else. But the doctor didn't need to know that.

"How long has this been going on?" the doctor asked, a professional frown on her face.

She seemed nice enough, but he found himself missing Arla. Knowing he needed to focus, Dean said, "A few months."

"Ok. Are you able to sleep at all?"

"Few hours. Here and there." _If that._

The doctor nodded, jotting his answer down on a notepad. "Anything you can think of that may have precipitated the insomnia?"

 _Hundred years of torture by the devil himself,_ Dean thought bitterly. Out loud, he said, "It's complicated."

"Complicated?"

"Yeah. Had a run of crappy luck. Lot of stress with work. And m'brother's been sick. For a long time."

"I'm sorry to hear that." And she looked genuinely sorry, but the level of concern in her eyes couldn't come close to Arla's concern for them. "What have you tried so far to help?"

"Uh...not...well-"

Dean broke off, mind racing. If he told her he hadn't tried anything, he doubted she would prescribe him anything strong. And that was why he was here. Because over the counter sleep aids were not going to cut it. So he lied and told her he'd been trying everything he could find.

She seemed to believe him, which was a relief. Nodding, she said, "I can prescribe you a mild sedative and we can see if that will help."

When she told him the name of the medication, Dean said he'd already tried that one and it hadn't helped at all. It was another lie, of course. But he hadn't come here for a _mild_ sedative. He'd come here to get the strongest thing possible because that was the only thing that would knock his brother out. _You hope,_ the voice in the back of his head whispered negatively. Dean had no idea what to try next if sleeping pills didn't work.

"Ok." The doctor pursed her lips and said, "We'll give a stronger one a try. But absolutely no alcohol while taking this medication. No other sleeping pills, either. Try this one on a night when you have nowhere to be the next morning. I wouldn't advise driving until you're sure how your body will handle the medication."

"Sounds good." Dean wanted to cheer. He wasn't worried about the alcohol or the driving because Sam was avoiding both anyway.

"Alright. We'll fax the prescription to your pharmacy." The doctor jotted a few more things down, then said, "I am concerned about your blood pressure."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Blood pressure?"

"Yes. It was quite elevated. Do you have a family history of high blood pressure?"

"Uh...I'm not sure." And that was the truth. Family medical history was one of those things that had never been a priority.

"Have you ever been diagnosed with hypertension?"

"No," Dean said, thinking back to another doctor at another clinic who had also commented on his blood pressure.

"It may be related to your lack of sleep and general stress," the doctor explained. "We don't diagnose hypertension on one elevated blood pressure reading alone. Would you be able to return to the clinic tomorrow for another check?"

Dean had no intention whatsoever of doing so, but nodded and smiled. "Sure."

The doctor returned his smile and said, "Good. Do you have any questions about anything we've gone over today?"

"No."

"Alright. Then you're free to head out. The script will go to the pharmacy you selected when you registered. Take it easy and I hope you are able to get some sleep and your brother feels better."

"Thanks." Dean was on his feet and out the door before she could say anything else.

In some ways it had been much easier than he'd expected. Of course, the fact he looked like crap and really _was_ exhausted probably helped sell his story. Regardless, he'd gotten what he'd gone in for and that was all he cared about. Dean hurried back to the car with a quick glance at his watch.

Longer than he'd intended to be gone. And he still had to get breakfast and pick up a prescription. His phone had been silent, so maybe Sam was still out on his walk.

He could only hope.

* * *

Dean put more quarters into the vending machine and the second can of Coke dropped. Reaching down for it, he found himself itching for something to do. For a new hunt. The last one had gone off without a hitch, notwithstanding a cut to the side and a tetanus shot. It had felt normal. Natural. Like old times.

Of course, he hadn't had time to enjoy it to the fullest extent before things had fallen apart and Sam's nightmare plunged them right back into the new reality.

After he'd picked up the prescription and breakfast earlier, he'd returned to the motel room to find Sam pale, sweaty, and flat on the bed. Worry had spiked, but Sam had insisted he was fine, just tired. He'd sat up after a few minutes and made an effort to eat. The entire morning, Dean had felt like his brother was at war with himself over something. Half a dozen times, Sam had opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut down before he'd said a single word.

They'd left the uninteresting little town after breakfast and gone back to aimless driving. Aimless driving and pretending they weren't walking on eggshells around each other again.

As much as he was ready to get out there into another hunt, Dean decided he needed to let his brother choose when _he_ was ready to pursue another case.

Sam wanted to take a few days off, so that's what they were going to do.

Popping the top on one of the cans, Dean took a long sip. The weather was nice, on the warm side, and the roadside park had been the perfect place to stop to stretch their legs and eat lunch. After eating, Sam had pulled out the novel and Dean had left him alone and gone to fiddle with the car. If Sam wanted to sit there and read for awhile, Dean was fine with it.

They didn't have anywhere they needed to be. But it had been over an hour now and Dean was hot and sweaty and ready to go. Jacket over his shoulder and the cans of soda in his hands, he headed toward the picnic table.

He realized Sam was still sitting there completely engrossed in that damned book. It shouldn't be taking Sam this long to finish a paperback novel. But it _was_ taking him this long and it meant the issues were still there. Better, but still there.

Since they'd spent the day being careful not to talk about Sam's issues any more than they were talking about _his_ issues, Dean pushed the lingering concern to the back of his mind and sat down across from Sam, sliding the second can toward him.

Taking another drink, Dean studied his brother. He was still reading and Dean wasn't sure if he were being ignored or if Sam truly didn't realize he'd just sat down. Sam was a lot less distracted lately and didn't zone out as often, but he still tended to be distant. Especially when they drove.

Dean wondered if they would ever be able to return to the easy, comfortable companionship they usually enjoyed while cruising the never-ending back highways between jobs. He wondered if they'd ever _be_ comfortable again.

The sound of the second can being opened drew his attention and Dean realized Sam was studying him. Dean met his gaze, but took a sip of his own soda; waiting for his brother to make the first move. And waited. And waited. Sam set the book aside and finally took a drink. The suspense was making Dean jumpy and he gave up waiting for his brother to say something.

"Sam-" _We have_ got _to talk about this._ Dean broke off before he said it, but it was obvious his brother knew what he'd been about to say. Shaking his head, Dean backtracked and said, "Sorry. Never mind."

To his surprise, Sam said, "I'm not alright."

Dean couldn't have been more surprised if Sam had suggested they go skydiving-something he was absolutely not _ever_ going to do. It had been days - weeks - of pretending everything was fine. Weeks of them both denying what couldn't be denied. For Sam to admit what he'd been trying so hard to hide all this time felt like some kind of milestone.

Or miracle.

Sam stared down at the rough surface of the picnic table as he continued, "I still can't sleep."

"I know."

Meeting Dean's eyes briefly, Sam went back to studying the table. "I want to sleep. I _try._ I am so damned tired."

"I know," Dean repeated softly. It seemed to alleviate some of the tension running through his brother's shoulders.

Sam nodded, spinning the can on the table as he gazed back at the highway and the passing cars.

Dean swallowed hard and focused on the can in his own hand as he said, "I couldn't sleep. While you were...gone."

"Yeah?" Sam turned back.

"Yeah." Dean glanced up at him, saw the curious expression. "Took almost eight months for me to get back to sleeping even six hours straight. Lisa...she tried a bunch of stuff to help me. Nothing really did, but she tried. She was a yoga instructor so, you know, lots of healthy, holistic, essential oil-y crap."

Sam laughed, eyes lit up like Dean hadn't seen them in ages. He grinned and asked, "Lavender pillow mist?"

Glaring at him, Dean nodded. "Among other things."

"Not much for lavender I guess?"

"No. Although the massage oil-"

"Stop right there." Sam held up a hand, but he wasn't even trying to hide his amusement.

Dean smiled, then took another sip.

After a minute, Sam asked, "You couldn't sleep?"

"No." _Not even a little._

"I didn't do a lot of sleeping when you were dead, either," Sam said quietly. "I did a lot of drinking."

"Yeah. I did that, too."

"Dean, I don't know what to do."

He sounded ten years old again and Dean couldn't completely hide his smile. He'd heard that line so many times over the years.

Sam had said the same thing when he'd had a crush on the little girl up the street and wanted to share a candy bar with her. He'd agonized over which candy bar he should buy using the few quarters in his sweaty palm. The little girl had a chihuahua and Dean always compared the ugly thing to a rat. But Sam had thought the little girl had hung the moon, so Dean had pulled out the handful of crumpled bills from his pocket and contributed gladly.

He'd said it when he'd been agonizing over which Great American Classic he should choose to write his fourth grade book report on.

 _Dean, I don't know what to do._ Agonizing over why he wasn't growing tall like his brother. As if he could do anything about genetics. And hadn't _that_ turned out as a surprise for both of them.

 _Dean, I don't know what to do._ Agonizing because everything he seemed to do was wrong and made Dad angry.

 _Dean, I don't know what to do._ He'd said it when he'd been secretly planning to go to college, but too scared to admit his college plans aloud. It probably had been the first time Dean hadn't known the perfect answer to solve his brother's problems. He hadn't known the answer because, for the first time in their lives, Sam hadn't told him the problem.

And here they were again.

At least this time Dean knew what the problem was. While he hated the situation, he was relieved that Sam was finally, _fin-al-ly,_ making an effort to talk to him. Maybe they would be able to make some progress now. He thought about his trip to the clinic earlier. It seemed as if he'd picked the perfect day. Sam was staring at him and Dean knew he was hoping against hope his big brother would have a solution.

Dean wasn't sure he had a solution, but he had something at least. Mentally crossing his fingers, and thankful they were alone at a roadside park when this conversation came up, Dean said, "Sammy, I...uh, I know how difficult this has been. I know you know you can talk to me. About anything."

Sam nodded, a slight frown on his face.

"And I know why it hasn't been...easy. But I'm glad you're talking to me now." Dean cleared his throat, feeling the bottle of pills burning a hole in his jacket pocket. The jacket was on the table next to him and he had to glance at it to make sure it wasn't actually burning. Assured nothing was on fire, he said, "I...I've got something that might help."

"Yeah?" The frown deepened.

 _Just get it over with!_ Dean nodded, reached into his jacket pocket and set the bottle of pills on the table between them. "I want you to give these a try tonight, ok?"

Sam's expression changed and Dean expected the fight to begin.

Instead of a raised voice, though, all he got was a soft, "What are those?"

"Sleeping pills."

"Where-"

"Clinic. Earlier." Dean pressed his hands against the bench when they started shaking.

Sam stared at the bottle. "You went to a clinic?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" Sam looked up at him this time, expression unreadable.

Dean snorted even though he hadn't meant to. He shook his head. "Tell me this. Did you sleep _at all_ last night?"

"No." Sam sighed. He rested his head in his right hand, left hand spinning the Coke again.

"That's why I went to a clinic." Dean waited, but received no reply. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and said, "You need to sleep. It's not good enough to get a few hours here and there. Or even one decent night's sleep every other week."

"I know."

"You've gone through an entire bottle of Tylenol since we left the Penders," Dean continued. "The headaches aren't gonna stop until you get some rest."

Another heavy sigh. Sam straightened. "You think sleeping pills are the answer?"

"In the short term, yes." Dean nodded. "I don't want you to take them long term, ok? But you have got to try something. You can't keep going like this."

"What if they don't work?"

"If they don't work, we'll figure something else out." Dean leaned forward, sensing the despair. "We'll figure something else out, ok? If I have to, I'll knock you out."

He grinned when Sam cracked a small smile at that.

Sam met his gaze and said, "When I was walking earlier...I knew I needed help. That I can't keep going like this. I knew I needed to talk to you."

Knowing how difficult the decision had been, Dean said, "I'm glad you did."

"I never expected it to be this hard." Sam shook his head slowly.

"I didn't either."

"You think-"

"I think you're gonna be fine." Dean interrupted, knowing what his brother was about to say. "I think it's...probably always...it's never gonna just disappear. But you're gonna get past it."

"It's been _weeks,_ " Sam said, eyes bright. "I don't think-"

Dean shook his head, cutting him off again, "Sam, if we were talking to some witness who'd gone through what you went through...if we were talking about _me,_ would you expect me to be over it already?"

Sam shook his head, but Dean wasn't convinced he was getting the point.

"You know," Dean said with a rueful smile, "I think there's one thing you learned a little too well from Dad. You're too hard on yourself."

"Dean-"

"Shut up and listen, I'm waxing eloquent here." Dean smiled at Sam's eye roll and snort of derision. They didn't deter him from waxing eloquent, though. He typically avoided conversations like these, but there might never have been a more important situation for such a conversation. "You've been beating yourself up this whole time. You're the _last_ person who should be getting beat up about this."

Sam closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands.

Dean took a steadying breath, then said, "I want it to be over, too. I do. I'm sick of watching you suffer. Sammy, it's just not something you get past right away. I wasn't ok after I got back; not for a long time. What he did to you...nobody gets past torture like that overnight. Nobody just gets over -" Dean broke off before he said the one thing they were _never_ going to say aloud. Swallowing hard, he said, "We gotta keep going. Keep moving and it'll get better."

"Ok," Sam whispered.

"Yeah?"

Sam lifted his head and nodded. "Yeah. And we better get moving soon or I'm going to fall asleep right here."

Laughing, Dean pushed himself up from the table. "No sleeping yet. We gotta make sure you're exhausted tonight so you can sleep. At night. When you're supposed to."

"You gonna make me run laps?" Sam asked, grabbing his soda and his book as he rose.

"Will it help?"

"At this point the idea of you knocking me out seems like the best option."

Dean knew Sam was joking, but also knew he wasn't _completely_ joking. Trying to reciprocate the attempted humor as they walked back to the car, Dean said, "I'll keep that in mind. If the pills don't work, I'll just punch you."

"Thanks." Sam smiled.

Nodding, Dean didn't comment. They reached the car and both pulled their doors open, then waited, staring at each other over the car. Dean wasn't quite sure what to do next or where to go. Sam saved him the trouble.

"We should find a bookstore."

"A bookstore?" Dean shook his head. "Why would we go to a bookstore?"

"Free wi-fi."

"There's free wi-fi at motels. We can go get a room."

Sam took a deep breath and said, "I need coffee and I need to do something. If we keep driving or just go to a motel I won't be able to stay awake. If there's any chance of me sleeping tonight, I need to stay busy and awake the rest of the day."

There was logic to his argument, Dean realized. He nodded slowly. "Ok. But you're getting something that is _not_ coffee. You want to sleep? I'm cutting you off. No more caffeine today."

"Fine." Sam didn't look happy about it, but didn't argue.

It wasn't easy to sneak cups of coffee when they were almost exclusively side by side. But Dean had a strong suspicion Sam was helping himself to some extra cups when he went out for his walks in the morning. And he was probably adding shots of espresso whenever he was able.

They both got into the car, Dean started it and asked, "How much coffee have you been drinking lately?"

Sam shrugged, finishing his soda.

 _Probably afraid I'm going to take that away from him too,_ Dean thought with a smirk. He didn't give up the topic, though. "Seriously. How much?"

"I don't know." Sam leaned his elbow on the door frame and pressed his hand to his head. "I'm not paying attention. A lot. That's the best I can do. I'm drinking it like I was when this whole mess started."

"No wonder you can't sleep." Dean shook his head. "Dude, you need to detox."

"Yeah, probably."

Dean wasn't sure he should ask his next question, but figured things were going so well he shouldn't retreat, but continue to tread carefully. So he asked, "Is it the nightmares?"

Sam shook his head, staring blankly at the passing scenery. "They've actually been better. Well, except..."

 _Except for the other night,_ Dean thought as Sam's voice trailed off.

"Other than that," Sam continued, "they haven't been as bad. I think I'm just so screwed up because it's been going on so long, you know? Like my body doesn't even know _how_ to sleep anymore."

Dean knew he was probably right. "So we just have to reteach you. Hopefully the pills will help get you back on track. If they don't, I guess I'll have to make you drink some warm milk and sing you a lullaby."

Sam laughed and finally relaxed. "Please don't."

Grinning, Dean turned up the music and said, "Find me a town. Find me a bookstore. Time to see if there's anything new out there on Roman."

It was an hour to the nearest decent sized town with a Barnes and Noble and Dean occupied them both by asking random questions and tasking his brother with answering them. Whenever he ran low on questions and the silence dragged on, he'd catch Sam with his eyes closed, so he kept up the questions.

An hour had seldom seemed so long, but the bookstore finally came into view and Sam was still awake which was a major victory in Dean's book.

* * *

Dean had to admit the bookstore had been a good idea. They'd both gotten a lot of research done. While Sam took the laptop and sat at a tiny table in the cafe, sipping a caffeine free herbal tea that Dean had selected for him, Dean went for the magazines and newspapers. He caught himself up on what had been happening the past few weeks while they'd been neck deep in their own misery. And he'd checked up on his brother frequently. Partially to ensure he wasn't falling asleep, partially to assure _both_ of them that Sam was fine and that _he_ was close.

It was oddly satisfying and peaceful to spend a few hours at a bookstore. They'd compared notes after leaving and at least knew a bit more about what had been happening on the Leviathan front. Which was not a whole lot. It should have made them feel better, but it didn't. Because they both knew that, while Roman may not have been doing anything that hit the national news, he was up to no good behind the scenes.

Sam had found a couple potential cases and they decided they were worth looking into. One was closer than the other so they agreed to head that way if things went smoothly with the sleeping pills. Dean was still amazed Sam had agreed to the pills. After how much he'd fought not to take _anything_ at the Penders, Dean had expected a fight. But there had been no fight.

Just a grateful, utterly exhausted little brother.

Now, they were preparing to head to bed. When the bathroom door opened, Dean was ready. Grabbing a bottle of water, he sat down on the edge of his bed and waited. The bathroom light was still on when Sam appeared a moment later. He looked tired enough that Dean wanted to believe he would be able to sleep without any help.

But he knew better.

"You alright?" Sam asked, sitting down across from him. "How's your side?"

"It's fine. I'm good."

Sam nodded; a question in his eyes. Dean steeled himself and held out the bottle of water. Sam took it without comment, but didn't take a drink. Dean reached for the bottle of pills from the nightstand and they both looked down at it.

After a moment, Sam said quietly, "Give me the highest dose, ok?"

He was floored and tried not to let his surprise show as he checked the label. He tapped two tablets out into Sam's waiting hand. Sam took them without comment and Dean set the bottle on the nightstand; the thought crossing his mind that it might not be the worst idea in the world to take a couple himself. He dismissed the idea, though. There was no way he felt comfortable with the thought of sleeping so deeply he might not wake up if something happened.

"Thanks."

Dean nodded, but Sam was staring at the carpet. For a few minutes they fell silent. Dean hoped the pills would kick in quickly because if his brother didn't go down soon, they were going to have issues. Because he was tired enough that _he_ was going to be the first one to fall asleep at this point. He rubbed his eyes and rested his head in his hands.

Sam cleared his throat and asked, "Would you do something for me?"

"Yeah." Dean straightened and hoped his brother wanted something like an extra pillow. If he wanted anything that required leaving the room, Dean wasn't sure he was up to it. He'd go, of course, get anything Sam wanted, but he was voting for the pillow thing. "What's up?"

"I think some lavender pillow mist would really help."

Dean's eyebrows rose and he almost laughed, but Sam sounded so sincere. And maybe it really would help. He opened his mouth to say he'd go try to find some, but before he could, Sam had another request.

"And maybe you could sing a lullaby, too."

He had to give him credit, Sam didn't even crack a smile. Dean decided two could play at this game so he nodded, maintaining his own serious expression as he said, "I can handle that. Hang on a second, I think I still have some of that peach-mango-vanilla-berry-frou-frou massage oil in my bag."

 _And the winner is Dean Winchester,_ Dean thought to himself as his little brother pitched a pillow at his face and flopped backwards onto the bed. Somehow Sam managed to look disgusted even though he was laughing. Dean threw the pillow back at him and his brother pushed it aside as he rolled over and settled on his stomach.

Dean grinned, pleased that he'd gotten such a good reaction out of his brother. He took a quick glance at his watch to see how long it would take for his brother to fall asleep. Whether it was due to the pills or merely the result of being so tired, it already looked like Sam was giving in to the exhaustion.

"Sam?"

"Hm?

"Go to sleep."

"Stop staring at me." Sam buried his face in the pillow.

Dean laughed, feeling a little giddy and a lot exhausted. He ran a hand over his face. "I can't help it. I'm waiting for you to turn into a pumpkin."

Sam moved his face out of the pillow and, eyes closed, muttered, "I'm waiting for you to stop being so annoying."

"It's been thirty some years, Sam. I think you might as well give up on that."

Whether Sam agreed or disagreed, Dean would never know. Because Sam was already asleep.

 _Less than a minute._

Dean breathed out a huge sigh of relief as if he'd been holding his breath for a year. It didn't mean anything. It was too early to get excited. Sam had fallen asleep before, even without pills so this wasn't anything special. The real test would come in a few hours.

Despite the fact Sam had left the bathroom door half open and the light still on, Dean couldn't be bothered to get up and deal with any of it. It was all he could do to stumble toward the table and reach for his bag. He pulled out the bottle in the bottom of it and took a few generous sips to quiet the last of his nerves. Mission accomplished and heady buzz pushing all other thoughts aside, Dean left the bottle on the table and stumbled the short distance back to his bed.

Once he'd verified Sam was still asleep, he sank back into his own mattress. Even without a sleeping pill, he was out only a few minutes after his head had hit the pillow.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed! Things are looking up a little, aren't they? :)**

 **Just as a heads up, chapter 48 is the last full length chapter. Ch 49 is a much briefer chapter, and ch 50 is a _very_ brief epilogue. And i'll also give the heads up now...ch 49 ends on an optimistic note as they head into the case with Garth. Ch 50...if you want to skip it, feel free. Because it is a lead in to Season 8 and we all know how the end of S7/beginning of S8 went. Needless to say, the epilogue is angsty, painful and not at all happy. :( Be forewarned. If you want to stop at 49, it's perfectly acceptable! :) **

**Thanks again for reading and sticking with this massive story for so long!**


	48. Chapter 48

**Good morning! Alright, everyone! Last full length chapter here... enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 48**_

When Sam woke up, he hoped he would look at the clock and find that it was morning.

Well, it _was_ morning, but it was much earlier than he'd hoped. Just after one, in fact. Pressing a fist to his aching head, he cursed the unfairness of it all.

A quick glance at the other bed revealed his brother soundly and deeply asleep. While it was a relief, Sam couldn't help the pang of jealously that hit him. _He_ needed to sleep, too.

So much for the sleeping pills, Sam thought, exhausted and groggy.

Tilting his head, he glanced at the nightstand between the beds. There was enough light from behind the partially closed bathroom door for him to see the pill bottle was still sitting there. Closing his eyes, he knew what he was contemplating was a bad idea, but the more he thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed.

He'd taken the pills to sleep and he wasn't asleep. Stood to reason he must need a higher dose. Maybe one more would be enough. Just to knock him out for a few more hours. He hadn't slept long, as usual, but he had slept deeply. So if he took one more pill, maybe it would be enough.

Eyes still closed, he listened as Dean mumbled in his sleep and shifted on the other bed. When the movement ceased, Sam returned to his thoughts. There was always a chance one wouldn't cut it, either. Better try two. It had been almost four hours since Dean had given him the tablets. It was probably fine.

Trying to be quiet, Sam struggled to sit up. He realized he was a bit more out of it than he'd first thought. His head felt heavy and not quite attached properly and his limbs were weighted down. He felt drunk. _Drugged._ He _hated_ feeling this way. Hated feeling out of control again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed for a few minutes while his head and body sorted themselves out, Sam went back to debating if his plan was such a good idea after all. Good idea or not, he still needed to sleep. So he cautiously reached for the bottle, hoping he wouldn't wake his brother. The first part of the plan was a success. Now he just needed to be able to get to his feet and make it to the bathroom without incident. He knew the sound of pills rattling would wake Dean up in a heartbeat so he needed to get a bit further away from him.

Getting to his feet was as challenging as merely sitting up had been. He wasn't graceful or coordinated, but at least he didn't fall on his face. Sam wasn't sure if it was because of the pills or if it was because he was just so sleep deprived. Either way, it took all his concentration to make it halfway across the room. Leaning against the table, he paused to regain his balance.

Sam glanced at the table and wasn't surprised to find the bottle of whiskey Dean had been hiding. He must have had a drink before falling asleep. Why he'd left it sitting out, Sam wasn't sure, but the sight of it troubled him.

He grabbed the bottle and finished his journey to the bathroom. Nudging the door closed, Sam tried to set the pills and whiskey on the counter without making too much noise. Once they were settled, Sam stared at them both.

A lot of conflicting ideas were running through his head and vaguely, Sam realized he shouldn't be standing alone with a bunch of pills and a bottle of whiskey. It was a recipe for disaster. Or it might be the answer. He wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to take _all_ the pills or drink all the whiskey. Just enough. Just enough to get him through the rest of the night.

Sam had to put a hand against the wall to ensure he didn't hit the floor when the room began spinning. He closed his eyes and waited for the sensation to pass, thoughts persistently returning to the items on the counter.

As difficult as it was to think, Sam found his thoughts drifting back to two hospital visits and the memory of Dean throwing up blood.

He almost hit the floor. The memory was fresh and the colors and smells were vivid. His stomach turned and he opened his eyes, ready to lunge for the toilet. But nausea turned to fear. Dean was still drinking despite everything. He was going to kill himself.

Sam's fingers closed around the bottle of whiskey. It was time to pour it down the drain. Dean didn't want to admit he had a problem; didn't want to talk about it. Well, actions spoke louder than words, and it was time for Dean to listen.

He attempted to get the cap off. It wasn't easy and it only took a few seconds before the bottle slipped out of his shaking hands. It hit the edge of the sink and shattered, whiskey splashing his hands and t-shirt.

The noise startled him more than it should have considering he'd watched the bottle fall. Sam stared down at it, heart pounding, as he heard noises on the other side of the bathroom door. Suddenly, he didn't know what he was hearing or what he was seeing or what he was doing. A rush of static filled his ears.

Sam fought to breathe past the confusion and panic. Everything felt surreal. He didn't know where he was. Nothing was familiar. Blinking, he fought to hold onto consciousness as he stared down at whatever was in front of him. There was only one thing he could make out through the haze.

Blood.

Everywhere.

"Dean!"

* * *

Well, if he hadn't already been awake, he sure as hell was now.

Dean launched himself off the edge of the bed where he'd been sitting, trying to figure out what was going on and what had awakened him. Another panicked shout of his name had Dean rounding the bed and almost taking the bathroom door down. He was ready to take it off its hinges, but stopped and forced himself to use the doorknob instead. If Sam was on the other side of the door, he didn't need to plow him down. Whatever was going on was bad enough already. Running his brother over like a freight train was unlikely to make anything better.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, opening the door. Caution to the wind and all that.

The sight that greeted him wasn't quite what he had expected. Dean had expected to find his brother on the floor, possibly bleeding, considering the tone of Sam's voice. Instead he found his brother standing shellshocked in front of the sink with whiskey all over his hands and shirt. He was wavering where he stood and Dean wasn't sure he was even awake.

Catching him by a shoulder, Dean met his gaze and asked, "Hey, what happened?"

"I...the blood…" Sam's voice trailed off and he went back to staring at his shaking hands.

"It's not blood," Dean said, reaching for a towel. He was trying to sort out what on earth had happened, but decided that wasn't as important as making sure Sam was ok. "None of it's blood, Sammy."

"It's all over everything." Sam shook his head, holding his hands up.

"Dude," Dean said, grabbing one of Sam's hands, "the only thing that's all over is my bottle of whiskey. Thank you for that, by the way, butterfingers."

Sam didn't acknowledge him, but didn't pull his hand back as Dean mopped up the whiskey. He saw the pill container on the counter and that, combined with the broken shards of his bottle of whiskey, didn't exactly paint a picture Dean wanted to see. Had his brother come into the bathroom to take the pills with the whiskey? The thought chilled him, but Dean knew he wasn't going to get a straight answer right now.

He set the towel aside and grabbed Sam's shoulder when he swayed again. Both hands braced against the counter, Sam's eyes fluttered closed. Tightening his grip, Dean asked, "Are you even awake?"

"Am I?" Sam whispered, not opening his eyes.

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, you're not. Time to get you off your feet. Come on."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean paused even though he wanted to leave the bathroom and get them both back into bed.

"What?" Sam asked like he hadn't been the one to initiate the conversation in the first place. He looked as confused as Dean felt.

Dean had to laugh. He didn't mean to, but he couldn't hold it back. "You are wasted, man. Wasted. You didn't take any more pills, did you?"

"No." Sam pulled back slightly and reached for the pills. "You're right...was gonna...couldn't sleep."

"That's why you got up?" Dean pulled his hand away and shoved the pills to the back of the counter.

Sam nodded. He wasn't completely with it, but he was following the conversation a little better now. "Woke up too soon."

"Yeah, but you can go back to sleep." Dean pushed and pulled until he got his brother out of the bathroom. "Come on."

"I need more-"

"Nope. No more pills. You had enough."

"They didn't work. I won't be able to-"

"Yes, you will. You _will_ be able to sleep. Just give the pills some more time to work, ok?"

"No, no, it's not gonna-"

Dean wanted to give his brother some more pills. Because he _wasn't_ sure if Sam was going to be able to sleep. But the thought of potentially overdosing his brother was a stronger motivation. So he gently shoved his brother until he was lying down in bed. Dean expected further argument and struggle, but once he was horizontal, Sam was _out._

He'd seen it happen a few times before, mostly when they'd been kids, and Dean couldn't help the smile. There was no way of knowing if his brother was going to be able to sleep through the night or not, but the way he'd just passed out gave Dean some hope.

Planning to follow his brother into sleep, Dean paused before his head hit the pillow. There was a shattered bottle of whiskey he needed to clean up. He wasn't sure his hands were steady enough for the task, but he wasn't going to leave the broken glass in the sink because the last thing either of them needed was to slice a finger off.

* * *

Dean woke up after nine and felt rested. Rested turned to relieved when he found his brother still sound asleep. Reaching for his phone, Dean set an alarm for nine-thirty and rolled over.

He hadn't expected to fall back to sleep, but the alarm woke him up from his surprisingly deep thirty minute nap. The alarm hadn't disturbed Sam, so Dean dragged himself up and into his jeans and boots. It was a good thing they tended to pick out of the way and less than noteworthy motels, or he might not have been able to get another night.

After paying for the additional night, Dean returned to the room. Sparing his brother another glance, Dean dropped into his own bed and fell back to sleep because, hey why not? Not like they had anywhere they needed to be. And he was exhausted, too.

The next time he woke, it was because he was starving. It was almost eleven and far past time for him to seek out some form of lunch. Sitting up, he ran his fingers through his hair and debated his options. He could go find something to eat or he could order something without leaving the room.

Sam appeared to be planning to sleep all day, so Dean figured he could go grab something and be back long before his brother so much as twitched. He didn't feel comfortable leaving, though, so he ordered Chinese then ran to take a quick shower.

By the time he'd finished eating, he was beginning to get concerned at how Sam didn't seem to be in any hurry to wake up. He needed all the sleep he could get, but sleeping all day was not going to help him sleep at night. Even so, Dean was torn. Sleep came at a premium lately and he was loathe to disturb whatever Sam could get. But if they were ever going to stand a chance of returning to anything resembling normal, they _both_ needed to sleep at night rather than during the day.

So he kicked the edge of his brother's bed from where he sat at the table. It elicited no response. He kicked harder and called Sam's name. Nothing. Again he debated leaving him alone. And, again, he voted against it. Groaning, he forced himself to his feet and crossed the room to shake his brother's shoulder.

Nothing.

"Sam. Seriously." Dean shook him harder, a gnawing worry beginning to eat at him.

They must have been some very heavy duty sleeping pills for Sam to still be dead to the world. The rusty wheels were turning in his sluggish brain and Dean turned to the bathroom. He'd been so tired last night he hadn't even remembered to check the bottle and count the pills to make sure his brother hadn't taken any more. Hands shaking, Dean dumped the pills out and counted them three times.

Only two were missing.

The relief took his breath away. And then he put all the pills back and smiled. It was too early, of course, to know if this was the turning point or not. Setting the pill bottle back on the counter, he returned to the other room and tried again.

"Sam, wake up or I swear I will pour cold water all over your lazy ass." His threat didn't do the trick, but another more vigorous shake of his shoulder finally drew Sam out of the depths of sleep.

Dean received an incoherent mumble of complaint and an uncoordinated hand attempting to push him away. He snorted and shoved at his brother's shoulder again. "Yeah, you're not getting off that easily. Wake up."

Another incoherent mutter, but at least Sam was moving. He shifted slightly and made a half-hearted effort to get his eyes open. It took him a couple tries before he actually focused on Dean's face. Once he was sure Sam was paying attention, Dean grinned.

"You just slept ten hours straight," he announced, holding his watch in front of Sam's face even though he knew Sam wasn't anywhere near alert enough to be able to read the time. "It's almost noon."

Sam didn't look excited. Dean couldn't help but feel disappointed even though he knew he was being unfair. Sam was barely awake. No wonder he wasn't enthusiastic.

After a few seconds, Sam rolled over onto his back and rubbed his eyes, then took a deep breath. Dean had to strain to hear him when he said, "I've got a headache."

Another disappointment, but Dean reassured himself that it wasn't a surprise. Considering the chronic lack of sleep and now the heavy-duty medications, it made sense. He pushed himself to his feet and went for the Tylenol and a bottle of water.

Sam was sitting up on the edge of the bed when Dean returned. He held out a hand for the pills. Once he'd taken them, he looked up and asked, "What's the plan?"

Dean didn't have a good answer. Go? Stay? He didn't know what they were going to do whether they left or stayed. There was the potential case Sam found that was relatively close. Dean just wasn't sure if they were ready for it yet.

After a long silence, Dean shrugged and met his brother's eyes. "What do you want to do?"

It was obvious his question wasn't the response Sam had expected. He didn't answer and Dean wasn't sure if he didn't know what to say or if he was simply too tired to come up with a suggestion. Dean made the decision for them.

"Breakfast. Then we'll figure out our next step, ok?"

Sam nodded and pushed himself to his feet.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief when the bathroom door closed behind his brother. He felt on edge again. It was stupid to think that one night was going to fix everything, but he'd kind of hoped it would. Dean liked big victories. He liked to see results. This constant one step forward one step back thing was killing him.

Killing them _both,_ he reminded himself. Sam didn't like it any better than he did.

He sighed again and figured he might as well start packing things up.

* * *

 _Two days later_

Sam hoped he wasn't going to regret this. He'd chickened out at breakfast, which had been for the best since he'd struggled to concentrate on eating let alone broaching a topic he knew was more than likely going to result in an argument. Thankfully, they were the only ones eating outside at the picnic tables arranged around the burger drive-in. It wasn't a lot of privacy for when his brother began to shout, but it was something.

Telling himself to just get it over with, Sam finally asked, "Can we talk?"

Dean paused mid-bite, mustard dripping off his finger onto the tabletop. Sam smiled and slid a napkin across the table. Finishing his bite, Dean set the burger down on the plate and smeared the mustard on the napkin.

"What's up?"

He sounded fine and he sounded like he wasn't expecting a sneak attack which made Sam feel a little worse about bringing the topic up. The day had been pleasant and Dean had been in a great mood; no doubt in part thanks to the fact that Sam had managed to sleep through the night three nights in a row.

There was no going back, though, so Sam forged ahead. "How are you doing?"

Dean's eyebrows rose, but he grinned. "I'm great."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Really." Dean nodded, pursing his lips as he contemplated. He smiled again. "I'm great. How 'bout you?"

He wasn't quite ready to say he felt _great_ but he needed to give his brother an answer, so Sam admitted, "I'm ok."

"That's good!"

Dean's enthusiasm and upbeat attitude made Sam smile; somehow it felt like the day he'd won his first soccer trophy. For Dean to be so excited about the fact Sam said he felt _ok_ seemed silly, but it also seemed like a monumental victory. For a moment, Sam let the conversation go and their attention returned to their food.

He was still trying to figure out how to get the conversation going again by the time Dean finished his burger. Tapping a finger on the table, Dean said, "I sense you weren't finished."

Glancing up, Sam saw his brother was smiling again. He'd been doing that a lot lately. Sam shrugged. "I haven't exactly been...I don't know, able to help. You've been sick, Dean. Really sick. And I've been-"

" _You've_ been sick, Sam. Sicker than I've ever seen you," Dean cut him off, tone conveying how worried he still was. He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. "And I don't mean sick in the head. Mostly."

Sam smiled. It was a relief that they could joke around about it a little now. "Thanks."

"Welcome. Point is, just because I wound up in the hospital and all that crap doesn't mean that what you've had going on isn't as serious."

This wasn't going the way Sam had planned. He'd been trying to convince his brother of the same thing. In reverse. Dean never wanted to acknowledge how serious his own health issues were. Dean was on a roll, though, and didn't give Sam time to spit any of that out.

"So don't try to apologize to me about it. Best thing you did for me was not falling over the edge, ok?"

Sam snorted and shook his head. "I think I fell off the edge a few times. _More_ than a few times, actually."

"Yeah, ok." Dean nodded, smile fading a degree. "But you never let go, Sammy. You never let go and that's what counts. That's all that matters."

It released another knot of tension behind Sam's ribs. Never in their lives had they needed to verbalize how they felt about each other. It was understood. It was their default setting. Even so, hearing something like this from his brother right now meant more to him than he could ever hope to put into words. So he didn't try. He merely met his brother's eyes, knew the emotion in his own eyes would easily be seen, and nodded his appreciation.

Dean smiled again, then cleared his throat. "I know you've got more rolling around in your brain. Guess I gotta get used to it again now that you can think straight. So spit it out. I'm already prepared. I know I'm not going to like it so you might as well get it over with so we can start arguing about it."

Sam couldn't help but smile again. He took a deep breath and said, "You're right, you're not gonna like it. Let's talk about your drinking."

And, just as he'd expected, Dean closed down on him before he'd even started. "Nuthin' to talk about."

"I think there is."

"Look, I was drinking. Too much. I get it. I backed off."

"You backed off by having a bottle of whiskey hiding in your bag and-"

"A bottle _you_ poured down the drain." Dean waved a hand like it didn't matter. "It's gone. Subject closed."

"I _dropped_ it, and no, the subject isn't closed. You don't get to do this. You don't get to just shove this under the rug." Sam tried to keep his tone even and non-threatening. He wanted to shout at his brother, but he would lose any battle he fought if he started yelling now. "Your drinking is just as serious as anything else that's been going on."

"Sam, I'm fine. Haven't had a drink all day."

"How are you fine? It's _noon,_ Dean." Sam shook his head, frustration tearing at him. "You haven't had anything to drink yet because your whiskey was gone and we haven't hit a place that has alcohol yet."

Dean shook his head. "Look. I appreciate your concern or whatever but I'm fine."

He'd known the conversation wasn't going to go well. Dean wasn't shouting at him but he also wasn't listening. Sam sighed and gathered the trash. Pushing himself to his feet, he shoved the trash into the bin and walked to the car.

Sam heard a heavy sigh behind him and ignored it as he got into the car. If Dean didn't want to talk about it, then he wasn't going to continue to push. Things were going so well. He'd done enough damage along the way. Maybe now that _he_ was doing better, Dean would be ok.

The other door opened and Sam took a quick glance over as his brother slid behind the wheel. Dean didn't start the car and Sam stared out the windshield, waiting.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Dean shifted and looked over him. "I owe you an apology."

Sam studied his brother. "You don't have to apologize for anything."

"Yes, I do." Dean held up a hand. "Let me get this out. One time deal."

"Ok."

"I know there wasn't really another option. I tried. Would've done anything-"

"Dean-"

"Shut up, Sam."

"Sorry."

Dean rolled his eyes, then ran a hand through his hair. He started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he said, "I know all of this was my fault."

Sam wanted to interrupt, but found himself holding his breath. This wasn't how he'd wanted the conversation to go, but they were holding a conversation, so that counted for something.

After a long pause, Dean continued, "I know you don't see it that way, but I do. It was my fault. So I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Sam waited until Dean was making eye contact, then said, "Don't be sorry. I'm not."

"Sam-"

"I'm _not._ Yeah, this has been...well, it's been hell." Sam smiled when Dean snorted at that comment. "But if you hadn't pushed, hadn't done everything you could, never given up, never taken no for an answer, and chased Death himself down, I wouldn't be here right now."

Dean nodded, looking away, jaw clenched tight.

Sam repeated, "I wouldn't be here. _You_ got me out and I'm grateful. You've saved me a hundred times since, so don't be sorry. And stop beating yourself up about it. It's behind us. It's over."

"Is it?" Dean's question was very soft, his head still tilted away.

Sam took a deep breath, staring out the window, pondering the question.

 _Is it over?_

No, in some ways it would never be over. The nightmares, memories and everything else would always be there. But he'd had nightmares before and enough bad memories to last a lifetime. What were a few more? No, in some ways it would never be over.

But in all the other ways, it was over.

"Yeah." Sam smiled, catching Dean's eye. "It is."

* * *

 _A week later_

Dean woke up to the sound of movement. It wasn't unusual and he was pretty good at tuning it out. Things had finally settled back into a normal rhythm. Sam would get up sometime after five every morning and head out for a run. He always came back in a good mood, bringing breakfast and coffee with him.

He knew Sam was back to running instead of simply taking long walks, and Dean was secretly thrilled to see another sign of things returning to normal. Things had been getting back to normal ever since the night everything had completely fallen to pieces around them. In fact, the pieces were fitting back together far better than Dean had ever dared hope.

Rolling over, he rubbed his eyes and glanced at the other bed. Sam was sitting on the edge, lacing up his tennis shoes. He looked up after a second and asked softly, "Did I wake you up?"

"Nah." Dean waved a hand, then pushed himself up to lean against the headboard. He yawned and tried to decide why he was sitting up and talking to his brother instead of going back to sleep.

Sam studied him as if he were wondering the same thing.

For a moment they stared at each other. Then Sam said something Dean hadn't expected to hear.

"I feel better."

Dean's eyebrows rose. He knew Sam wasn't referring to the lingering cold and it was the best thing, the _absolute best thing_ , he'd heard in a very long time. It was so wonderful that he found himself speechless and maybe even a little breathless.

Sam smiled briefly, then averted his gaze as he said, "I didn't...really think I would. I almost forgot what it felt like to just be...ok."

 _You and me both,_ Dean thought, but still he couldn't speak.

"I know you've been looking stuff up," Sam continued, voice almost inaudible even in the quiet room. He kept his gaze on the carpet. "I've been...looking at the same stuff."

Dean was hanging on every word, afraid to move a muscle.

Sam was right.

They _were_ looking at the same stuff. But this was the first time they were acknowledging it aloud. It had all started the day he'd enforced the mandatory nap on his brother. That day he'd begun bookmarking the pages he was looking at. He wasn't great at being a therapist and he'd hoped maybe the resources would help when he couldn't. At first, he'd been nervous about saving the webpages; afraid it would make things worse. But then he'd logged in two days later and realized Sam had looked at every single page he'd saved.

And he hadn't erased the history.

Now they had over two dozen websites saved as favorites in a folder named simply ' _Stuff'_. Most of the bookmarks he'd added, but Sam had been contributing as well. The topics included PTSD, depression, alcoholism and some _other_ things. Things that Dean couldn't think about without blinding rage coursing through his veins even as he fought to keep from losing whatever food he'd eaten that day.

"I don't want to talk about it, ok?" Sam cleared his throat and went on, "I don't...I don't think I'm ever going to be able to talk about it. And we don't need to. We both...know."

Well, yeah. They did. And Dean didn't want to talk about it any more than Sam did.

"It's getting easier. To leave it...behind."

Dean believed him. He considered the past week. Sam had been sleeping every night almost all night. After the first night, Dean had given Sam full control over the pills. When he took them and how many he took was left up to him.

Those first few nights, after his brother had fallen asleep, Dean had fought a battle within himself not to look for the pill bottle and count the pills. He'd wanted to check on the pills so much it had made his teeth hurt. Or maybe his teeth had hurt because he'd lain in his bed for hours, jaw clenched, telling himself not to count the pills. They'd been working so hard at the whole trust thing that Dean couldn't bring himself to do anything to jeopardize Sam's trust.

As time had gone by, Sam had been gradually weaning himself off the pills so there were some nights he didn't get as much sleep as he had been, but he was still sleeping. Sleeping _without_ nightmares.

The nights had been going well and the days had been passing in what counted for their typical routine. There had been fewer arguments, and no panic attacks or freak-outs. He'd been drinking less as Sam had slept more. Until now, he hadn't even paid that much attention to the fact that they were both acting normal. _Real_ normal this time instead of the carefully practiced act from before.

It was getting easier for both of them.

"So, uh, thanks." Sam looked up at him again and said, "For the...help."

The words he wanted to say were loud in his head, but all Dean did was nod. He never had been good at this sort of thing. Which sucked because of all the times he needed to - _wanted_ to - say he was proud of his brother, this was maybe the most important time.

Sam smiled and pushed himself to his feet.

"Hey, Sam," Dean finally managed to say.

"Yeah?" He paused, hand on the doorknob.

Dean pushed himself out of bed. "Give me five minutes, ok?"

"For what?"

"I'll come with you."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Come with me?"

"Yeah," Dean muttered, searching through his gear for something halfway reasonable to wear for a run. He looked up at his brother, wondering if Sam was going to tease him, or shoot down his offer.

Instead, Sam's expression changed and Dean had to look away because the gratitude in his brother's eyes was almost more than he could take.

"Sure. I'll wait."

Dean smiled.

* * *

Sam stood by the door and waited for his brother.

He was surprised that Dean was getting ready to go for a run with him. Waking up early was nothing new for him, and it felt good to be back on a more typical schedule, but his brother was not a morning person. Every morning, he tried to be quiet, to let Dean sleep. And every morning, he knew Dean was awake despite appearances.

This was the first morning Dean had given up the pretense of sleep, though. Sam hadn't known what to expect when Dean had sat up and started talking to him. As it turned out, he probably could have simply agreed to bring back breakfast and things would have gone back to the usual.

He would have gone running and Dean would have logged onto the computer, doing everything in his power to help even when he still didn't know what to say.

Sam remembered his shock when he'd logged onto the laptop and first discovered what his brother had been researching. He hadn't been researching a case. He'd been researching post-traumatic stress disorder. Among other things. A knot had formed in the pit of his stomach when he'd opened the third bookmark and been confronted with a website discussing recovery from something Sam would rather have forgotten about, or at least ignored forever, than address.

He'd stared at the page without being able to read anything other than the one word he didn't want to read. The one he didn't want to think about. The one he didn't want to remember. For a split second, the lightheadedness had left him close to passing out as a hundred years of memories rushed back.

Sam had hated his brother in that split second. Hated him for searching the web to find something like that. Hated him for bookmarking the page so it would be found.

Hated him for _knowing._

And then it passed. The fear, the memories, the hatred. It all disappeared like a first rain disappeared into dry soil after a drought. His heart rate returned to normal, the black spots in his vision faded and Sam had started to read the article. Once he'd started reading, Sam had been forced to acknowledge everything that had happened to him.

As difficult as it had been, reading the articles helped. Sam had always believed if you understood your enemy, you could defeat it. Or at least fight it. He wasn't sure this was an enemy he would ever defeat, but he sure as hell was going to fight it.

That had been days ago and neither of them had said a word. About any of it. But in the evenings, Sam would log on when Dean was in the shower or went out to a bar. There was always at least one new bookmark that Dean had saved. Sam would read the article and then do a few searches of his own. He'd go to bed and almost every night he fell asleep before his brother. In the morning, he went for his run. He knew that, as soon as he left, Dean was getting up and checking the computer.

Today was the first day that Dean had spoken to him before he left for his run. And, for the first time, Sam had been ready to speak, too. The words had been halting and pathetic, but he'd managed to get his point across. The understanding had been obvious when he'd looked at his brother. Sam had seen the struggle as Dean warred with himself on how to respond. Talks like these had never been easy for either of them, so it had honestly been a relief when Dean had merely nodded in response.

And now they were going to go out on a morning run together. Why exactly Dean had decided to come with him, Sam wasn't sure. It wasn't because Dean didn't think he was capable of being on his own. He'd been going out running, or at least jogging, almost every morning now and Dean had never checked up on him.

Whatever the reason, Sam was glad Dean had decided to come with him this time. They both needed to get back into shape and a little healthy competition would do them both some good. He smiled as Dean headed his way, smothering a yawn.

"Ready?"

Dean rubbed his eyes, then nodded. "The return trip better take us past someplace that has coffee."

"I think I can arrange it."

"Good." Dean locked the door behind them and they stood there for a moment, looking out at the sunrise.

Sam saw his brother yawning again and grinned. Clapping him on the shoulder, Sam said, "Loser buys the coffee."

And then he took off at a brisk jog, hearing his brother griping behind him. But a quick glance revealed Dean was starting to catch up. Sam knew he could beat him. And he knew he didn't have to. Because he hadn't brought his wallet so Dean was buying the coffee either way.

Grinning, Sam enjoyed listening to Dean complain almost as much as he enjoyed having some company on his morning run.

* * *

"Your husband is here, Dr. Pender."

Arla looked up in surprise. "He is?"

Delisa nodded.

"Ok, thank you. I'll finish up my charting and go see him." Arla returned her attention to her work, wondering why Tommy had decided to show up this afternoon. Not that he didn't have a habit of popping in for visits.

"He texted me," Kayla said, sitting down at the desk next to Arla.

Arla raised an eyebrow. "He did?"

"Yeah. He wanted to know if we were busy or if it was a good time for him to drop by." Kayla smiled. Turning to Delisa, she explained, "Tommy's here a lot. He's a cop so he brings people in all the time. He likes to flirt with Arla."

"Kayla!"

"Well he does." Kayla laughed, then continued, "He comes by when he's in the area and has the time."

Delisa smiled. "That's so sweet."

She was a brand new graduate nurse so she didn't know much about the inner workings of the ER and the staff dynamics. Kayla had been taking it upon herself to educate Delisa in more than just the nursing aspects of the job. Arla had known Kayla since _she'd_ been a new graduate and now she was one of the best charge nurses they had on staff.

"He brings her donuts and chocolate," Kayla said.

"And Dr. Pepper," Arla added without looking up.

"Yeah. Dr. Pepper. Sometimes he brings us provisions, too." Kayla pushed at Arla's chair with her foot and said, "They used to spend a lot of time in that back storage room."

"Kayla!"

"What? You did. Till that night Dr. Arthur caught you two goin' at it."

Arla tried to stifle a smile at the memory.

Kayla went on, "Now they use on-call room three. We call it the honeymoon suite."

Delisa broke out in a nervous giggle that told Arla she wasn't sure if she should be laughing or not. Arla pushed her chair back and smiled at the girl to set her at ease. She said, "It's ok, Delisa. Kayla isn't exaggerating and what you should learn from this conversation is that there may be such a thing as patient privacy, but there isn't necessarily such a thing as staff privacy."

"We're a family." Kayla grinned, pulling her badge to the end of the retracting elastic and allowing it to snap back.

Arla locked her computer as she stood up and said, "Yes. A nosy, gossipy family."

"But we're a happy nosy, gossipy family."

"Yes, we are." Arla laughed as Kayla rose to give her an exaggerated hug. Returning the hug,

then pulling away, Arla said, "Alright ladies. Behave yourselves and if you see a surgical mask on the doorknob to the honeymoon suite, stay out."

This time both Kayla and Delisa broke out laughing and Arla grinned as she walked around the corner to the front desk. It didn't surprise her at all to find Tommy chatting enthusiastically with Amber, the receptionist. Amber slapped his hand when he tried to steal her glitter pen. Tommy looked up at that point and Arla motioned to him with her best _come hither_ expression.

Judging by how his eyes lit up, she figured she hadn't lost her skill.

He said a quick goodbye to Amber and was around the desk in a heartbeat. Stealing a kiss, he said, "Kayla said it was a good time."

"It is." Arla took his free hand.

"The honeymoon suite ours?"

"Yes."

"Oh goodie."

Arla laughed as they walked down the hallway. "Are you on your lunch break?"

"Yep. Late one today. It's been busy." He pulled the door to the on-call room open and said, "But I think the timing worked out perfectly."

"Me too." Arla pulled him closer for another kiss. Straightening, she stood back and straightened his collar. "You look sexy in your uniform."

"Thanks. So do you."

Arla laughed. "Scrubs never have and never will be sexy."

"Well, they are when you take 'em off and they're on the floor," Tommy said, his grin leaving her with no doubts as to what he was hoping would happen next.

Patting his cheek, she said, "They're not coming off right now, so get out your lunch and keep your hands to yourself."

He flopped down on the cot, unpacked his lunch and handed her a Dr. Pepper as he commented, "You're no fun."

Sitting down next to him, Arla raised an eyebrow. "Really? So I wasn't fun last night?"

"You were fun." A blissful smile lit his face. "So, _so_ much fun."

"You're welcome." Arla opened the bottle, tapped it against his, then took a sip.

Tommy took a bite of his sandwich, then said, "Not that I don't love the girls, but I'm kind of having the time of my life getting you all to myself. We have a lot of _fun_ these days."

"Yes, we do." Arla scooted closer and opened the bag of chips.

She'd been worried about what would happen once the girls moved out and started their own families. A bit of empty nest syndrome had left her uncertain. She and Tommy had married young and the twins had come along a year later which hadn't given them much time to themselves before they became parents. But, ever since they'd been on their own again, their relationship had only deepened, grown more powerful, more passionate.

"You sure you don't wanna-"

Arla slapped his hand when he started tugging at her scrub top. "Eat your lunch. If you behave, maybe we can have some fun later tonight when we get home."

"Deal." Tommy focused on his sandwich while Arla helped herself to his chips. After a minute, he asked, "How's your day been, Dr. Pender?"

"Not too bad. Busy but not crazy."

"Always a plus."

Arla nodded. Steady busy she liked. Crazy busy she didn't. After a sip of Dr. Pepper, she said, "Sara texted. They might come down next weekend."

"Good. Give me and that strapping young husband of hers time to finish the project."

"Finish?" Arla couldn't help but laugh.

"The project" was an addition to the house that wasn't even close to being finished. Tommy and Sara's husband weren't exactly pros at renovations, but they enjoyed every opportunity they had to act like they knew what they were doing while the _actual_ renovators worked. It amused them and kept them out of trouble, so Arla couldn't complain.

"Alright, maybe not _finish_ but-" Tommy broke off, fumbling in his pocket.

"What're you looking for?" Arla shifted away from him when he inadvertently elbowed her.

"Phone. Just got a text. Probably from the wife. Such a nag." He grinned, pulling his phone out.

Arla just rolled her eyes and went back to her chips.

"Honey," Tommy said a second later. There was something in his tone that had her sitting up straight. He was grinning. "Check your phone."

Dropping the bag of chips, Arla dug her silenced phone out of her pocket and asked, "What is it?"

"Just look."

And look she did. For a very long time. When the screen went black, she woke it up again and reread the message. The cycle went repeated a few times before she could pull her eyes away and look up at her husband.

"Tommy," she whispered, a smile fighting past the emotion that was clogging her throat and bringing tears to her eyes.

"I know." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and reached for her phone. Reading the text, Tommy said, "He sent me the same text."

Arla looked back at the text Dean had sent and shook her head. "Tommy, this is so-"

"It is." He was still grinning. "It's great."

"I'm going to be able to sleep better at night now."

"You and me both."

"Wow." Arla shook her head, deciding that was one text message she was never deleting. "I can't believe he sent it."

"Me either. But I'm glad he did."

Arla was too. It wasn't much to hold onto as they returned to their ordinary lives and allowed the Winchester brothers to return to their extraordinary ones. It wasn't much.

It was everything.

 _Today Sam told me he feels better. I think we're gonna be ok._

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed!**

 **Again, as fair warning, ch 49 is the conclusion to this story. (spoiler? it is a happy ending lol).**

 **Ch 50, however, is an epilogue and it is optional. We all know what happened at the end of S7 leading into S8 and Ch 50 bridges that gap. It is not a happy chapter so it is completely optional. I wrote this entire story with S8 in mind, knowing what was going to happen to both the boys and the struggles ahead of them. I think so much of what happened in S7 played into what went down in S8.**

 **I didn't like how they handled things in S8 so, in a lot of ways, this story helped give me a way to (at least to myself) explain some of why things happened the way they did in S8. The trauma and grief and suffering they both endured in S7 did not magically disappear. I think Dean's anger at Bobby's murder and Cas' betrayal (and so many other things) just festered while he was in Purgatory. It was obvious he was suffering from PTSD after that experience and I really feel that he wasn't thinking clearly at all.**

 **I've always thought Sam probably had tried at first to find Kevin, but he was truly on his own and, after what he'd just begun to recover from in S7...I think he probably couldn't handle any of it. He had no way of knowing what had happened to Dean and Cas. If he'd known they'd wound up in Purgatory, I'm sure he would have done everything he could to get them back. I think he had no clue.**

 **Anyway! Probably more than you wanted to know about my opinions on S8 lol.**

 **Moral of the story? My muse may beat the boys to heck and back, but mostly she wants to "therapize" them and fix the problems the show doesn't address lol.**

 **Sorry for this ridiculously long note. :) Hope everyone has a great day!**


	49. Chapter 49

**Important note!**

 **Hi! So...something got messed up and ch 48 posted yesterday without any new chapter notifications going out! This is chapter 49, so don't read this unless you go back and read 48 first! Sorry for any confusion...I've been quite confused myself lol. So go read 48, then come back here. :)**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 49**_

Eight weeks.

Exactly two months to the day, Dean reflected, staring at the calendar. He hadn't been keeping track of the dates, but the day they'd walked out of the hospital -Sam barely intact and Cas in pieces - _that_ date would be burned into his memory forever.

Eight weeks.

The day they left the hospital stood out vividly against the dismal backdrop of the entire year; yet it felt like distant memory now.

He shook his head and stopped staring at the calendar that hung just inside the door of the coffee shop. Making his way toward the line, Dean couldn't help but look over his shoulder. Despite the darkness of the night, he could easily see across the street to the brightly lit gas station where Sam was fueling up the Pacer. As well as things had been going, it was becoming less of a habit to constantly check on his brother. Less of a habit, but certainly not one he'd broken completely.

And he always felt relieved when his worries were unfounded and Sam was fine.

 _Sam was fine._

Dean smiled to himself as the line moved forward.

Sam was fine and so was he. Well, as fine as a Winchester ever could be, he decided. Regardless, they were fine and he dared to believe well on the road to true recovery.

In over twenty-four hours, he hadn't had a single drink.. Well, not counting the two quick sips he still needed in order to fall asleep. Other than those, which really didn't count anyway, he hadn't touched any alcohol for an entire day.

He wanted to brag about it, but they had gone back to ignoring the fact he was drinking so bragging about it probably wasn't a good idea. Besides, Sam probably would have something to say about those two sips. So he simply congratulated himself for his achievement and kept his mouth shut.

Ordering their coffee, Dean went to wait at the end of the counter and stole another peek across the road just because he could. Nothing had changed. He smiled again, leaning back against a convenient wall and waiting for their coffee.

They had just finished a job and everything had gone well. Which made three hunts since they'd been back on the road. The first two had gone well overall, but the underlying issues had been painfully evident. This last hunt, though? Had felt like old times. They'd worked together seamlessly and smoothly.

Things were definitely looking up.

For the past week, they'd both slept every night all night. That was a rarity at the best of times and, considering what they'd gone through, it was amazing. Sam hadn't taken a pill the past four nights and he'd slept without nightmares.

Dean smiled as he accepted the coffee. His smile wasn't because of the cute barista, though. It was because everything was fine. Pushing the door open, he stepped outside just as the rain began falling. Even the downpour didn't dampen his mood.

Pausing for traffic, he looked for his brother. Sam had finished pumping the gas and was sitting on the trunk, book in hand. The book had seventeen chapters and, after days of trying, Sam was finally getting somewhere. Dean had snuck a peek earlier this morning when Sam had been in the shower.

Chapter twelve.

Progress.

He jogged across the street. Rushing to get under the shelter of the gas station awning, Dean held up the coffee when Sam glanced his way. A grin spread across his brother's face and, even though he'd lost a bet last night resulting in him having to buy quality coffee instead of gas station coffee, Dean couldn't help but return the smile.

It felt good.

Sam set the book down and held out a hand. Once he had the cup, he took the lid off and smelled it suspiciously. It was reminiscent of the way he'd been wary of food due to the hallucinations, but Dean knew the reason now was because Sam was making sure he'd gotten his fancy order correct not because he was afraid he'd find an eyeball floating in the latte.

Rolling his eyes and shaking the rain off his jacket, Dean said, "It's right. Three pumps of vanilla, two of caramel, one of chocolate syrup, shaken not stirred with a cherry on top."

"That's not even close." Sam shook his head. He tried the coffee, though, and looked pleased with the results.

"See, I _can_ get it right."

"Whatever."

Dean sipped his own coffee. He'd take the secret to his grave but he'd ordered the same sugared up concoction that his brother had requested. _Not half-bad._ For a few minutes, they stayed where they were, protected from the rain, enjoying the coffee and the fact that, for now anyway, life was good.

When Sam slid off the trunk and grabbed the book, Dean decided it was time to get moving again. He held up the keys in front of his brother and wondered if today was the day Sam would take them.

After his initial offer to hand over the keys, Sam had declined. He'd never given a reason for his reluctance, but Dean could make an educated guess.

Sam hadn't driven since they'd been in Portland investigating the series of cursed objects that had led them straight into the Leviathan real-estate plot.

That night, when Sam had shown up at the coffee shop looking half-dead with exhaustion, Dean had tried to get him to go grab some sleep. Neither of them had realized it then, but it had been the beginning of the end. The devil's torment had only escalated after that night and Sam hadn't slept more than twenty minutes at a time after they'd left Portland. It had been on their way to go find Frank when Sam had confessed that he'd fallen asleep behind the wheel and barely avoided an accident. He'd voluntarily banned himself from driving.

But Dean had been the only driver for weeks now and decided it was time to lift Sam's self-imposed ban. Maybe he should have waited till morning since it was late and dark, but he held the keys in front of Sam and waited. For a moment, he wondered if he'd made a mistake.

Things had been completely back to normal for the past week. No walking on eggshells, no nightmares, no panic attacks, no lying in bed all day, nothing. They'd seemed to have finally put it all behind them and Dean almost regretted taking the chance right now on stirring up old issues. This might be the last hurdle they needed to get over, though.

So he waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sam took the keys.

Dean didn't care if he couldn't quite hide his smile. Sam wasn't looking at him, though. He was staring at the keys. A few seconds later, he looked up with a smile and Dean immediately knew he wasn't going to like the reason Sam was smiling.

"Good plan," Sam said, not looking away. "This'll give you the chance to call Meg. See how Cas is doing."

 _And there it is..._ Dean had expected something like that. They held each other's stare and Dean knew he couldn't say no. They hadn't talked about Cas since that day in the garage when Sam had given his speech on the topic of why they shouldn't write their friend off. Sam hadn't brought it up once since then, but Dean knew they'd both been spending a lot of time thinking about Cas.

He couldn't say no. Yes, he was still angry. And, yes, he still thought Cas was getting exactly what he deserved. _Mostly._ But some of fury had decreased with the passing of time and, if Sam was ready to get behind the wheel again, then Dean was ready to make a phone call.

So he nodded.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean said, brushing past him to the passenger side door.

"I didn't say anything!"

"I could hear your sarcastic thoughts."

"You're an idiot."

Grinning, Dean slid into the seat. His smile faded instantly when he looked at his brother again. All levity had disappeared in a heartbeat. Sam looked troubled and, normal as things had been lately, Dean was back to thinking worst case scenarios.

Not sure he wanted to hear the answer, Dean asked, "What's wrong?"

Sam glanced his way and said, "We should destroy the phones after you call Meg."

Dean shook his head in confusion. Of all the things he'd been expecting, that had not been one of them. "What are you talking about? Why-"

And then it dawned on him.

Sam nodded. "Exactly."

They needed to cover their tracks. They needed to make sure no one, Dick Roman or anyone else, would _ever_ be able to find the Penders. There was a part of him that was still hesitant to let go of the contact, the support. They were back to normal, but there were moments when Dean worried and wondered if Sam was really doing as well as it appeared he was.

Moments when he couldn't help but know Arla had been right about Sam needing professional help. Moments when he wondered if he didn't _still_ need the help.

"You haven't texted her in awhile, right?" Sam interrupted his thoughts.

"No." Dean shook his head.

He'd kept his promise to keep her posted on how they were doing for a few days after the day he'd called her. The last time he'd texted her had been the day he'd gone out for a run with his brother. Sam had said he felt better and Dean hadn't been able to keep it to himself. But he hadn't sent another text since.

Sam still hadn't started the engine. His voice was soft as he asked, "Should we-"

Dean shook his head. "No. I told her we were doing fine. They both know we're not going to keep in touch. I'm not texting them anything else. I'll call Meg then we'll destroy the phones."

"Yeah. Ok." Sam sounded like the thought of losing contact bothered him as much as it was bothering Dean. But they both knew they had no choice. Sam started the car and said, "So."

"So."

"Back to work?" Sam's smile was weak, but it was there.

Dean nodded. "You know, if this was Baby, I'd stick AC/DC in and it would be all dramatic and epic when we pulled out of this parking lot to the strains of _Back in Black."_

Sam laughed and pulled out of the parking lot without an epic soundtrack.

Sitting back, Dean complained about the rain, the lack of music, the sucky car, the fact the Impala was gathering dust, and anything else trivial he could think of to gripe about. He griped for a good five miles before Sam told him to stop putting off the phone call. Pulling the phone out, he stared at it for another five miles. Dean could hear Sam taking a deep breath, no doubt intending to yell at him to get on with it.

So he called Meg.

And then he tried to get a straight answer from his brother on how he was really doing.

And then Garth called him.

And then they were back to business as if nothing had ever happened.

 _ **The**_

 _ **End**_

* * *

 **Ah! the end! I can't believe we've reached the end! Endless thanks to each and every one of you who have been reading, left reviews, favorited, and followed. I have so enjoyed taking this journey with you and hope you enjoyed the story.**

 **Quick detail: the AMC Pacer? That is the car the guys were driving in the episode after "Born-Again Identity": "Party on Garth." :)**

 **Epilogue coming up soon. Remember, it's optional. This is the end of the story proper so if you'd prefer ending on a happier note...don't read the epilogue lol.**

 **I have new story (already completed) that I'll be posting soon. It is a light-hearted story of brotherly fluff and fun...no angst or pain. Yes, everyone, I wrote a story in which I harmed neither brother in any way. :D There. Kept one of my New Years resolutions (so much for the no chocolate, no Dr. Pepper, and exercising lol). One outta four ain't bad.**

 **Thank you all again for reading and the support along the way!**


	50. Chapter 50

_**Epilogue**_

A few months later, Dean stabbed Dick Roman through the throat with a bone washed in the three bloods of the fallen and wound up in Purgatory.

He spent the first few days wondering if Sam was trapped in Purgatory somewhere, too. Dean knew Sam hadn't been standing as close to Dick as he and Cas had, but he'd wondered. And he looked for him. Everywhere. After a while, when he was pretty sure Sam _hadn't_ wound up in Purgatory with them _,_ Dean felt overwhelming relief. The relief was short lived because, if Sam wasn't here, maybe he was dead.

Or maybe he _was_ alive. Topside. Having just witnessed his brother and Castiel be blown up in a splatter of black goo. The thought left Dean numb because he wasn't sure Sam was mentally capable of handling something like that. Yeah, things had been better ever since they'd worked the case with Garth. Sam had said he felt better and had _seemed_ better, but somewhere along the way, Dean had realized his brother was still more fragile than either of them wanted to admit. The damage was deep and serious.

All he could hope was that Sam had memorized Arla's phone number. All he could hope was that his brother would call her.

Months passed and everything faded. All he could think of was survival.

Dean didn't have his brother and he didn't have alcohol. All he had left was the anger and it wasn't very long before the anger took over everything.

Even with Castiel and a thousand monsters on every side, Dean was alone.

* * *

Dean had stabbed Dick Roman through the throat and Sam had turned away to shield Kevin. When he looked back Dean and Cas were gone.

Sam had fought not to have a panic attack. It had been months, _months,_ since he'd experienced one, but in that moment, standing in an empty room surrounded by black goo and having no idea what had happened to his brother and Castiel, Sam had nearly lost the precious control he'd fought so hard to regain.

He'd tried at first. He'd tried to hunt Crowley down. Tried to research the lore; find out what could have happened to Dean and Cas. But with every day that passed, he felt himself slipping. There were times he wasn't sure if anything had been real. Times when he was afraid this was just another scene from the devil's never-ending collection of torturous hallucinations.

One desperate night, his flighty thoughts had turned to the Penders and he'd pulled out his phone. But he couldn't remember their phone numbers.

Months passed and everything faded. All he could think of was death.

Sam didn't have his brother. All he had left was the hopelessness and it wasn't very long before the hopelessness took over everything.

Even with Amelia and a dog, Sam was alone.

* * *

Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

Two are better than one,

because they have a good return for their labor:

If either of them falls down,

one can help the other up.

But pity anyone who falls

and has no one to help them up.

* * *

 **Well, here we are. At the end. The very end. :( I'm so sad to have this story come to a close because I've had such a great time writing it and being on this journey with all of you and the boys.**

 **Endless thanks to each and every one of you who have been reading and reviewing along the way. Thank you for sticking with this story even though it grew way longer and more involved than I ever meant for it to! :)**

 **I have several upcoming projects including a tag to Red Meat. I also do have plans for another story featuring the Penders...tentatively set in S12. :)**

 **Hope you'll stay tuned! Thank you again for reading! Have a wonderful weekend!**


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